


Once Upon a Hazy Memory

by MadcapRomantic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Cas, DCBB, DCBB 2014, DeanCas Big Bang, DeanCas Big Bang 2014, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Seriously tho, Sexual Content, and then there's smut, it's gonna be an angst dump, top!dean, until the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadcapRomantic/pseuds/MadcapRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the youngest prince of the kingdom of the Eastern Plains is never very exciting. Which is why, when the masquerade party for the summer solstice approaches, Castiel can't help but put on a mask and take to the streets. But when a masked stranger tears everything in Castiel's life apart, the prince is left to pick up the pieces, discovering along the way who he truly is in his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One (Castiel)

**Author's Note:**

> Possible triggers will be listed at the bottom of each chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers will be listed at the bottom of each chapter.

The stream was like ice, but compared to the heat of the summer’s sun it was a welcomed reprieve. Castiel tucked his socks into his shoes and left them by the shoreline, wading into the slow current, the bottom of his trousers rolled to his knees. He laughed and dunked his hands in the water, wetting his face.

“Dean! Dean!” Castiel swatted the water toward the shore. “Hurry up!”

Green eyes, glistening with mischief, squinted in the hot sun. Castiel watched as the other youth, without caring for the state of his clothes, ran to the shore, propelling himself into the air before crashing through the water’s surface with a great splash.

Castiel laughed out in surprise and delight, the frigid water lapping at his thighs. Throwing caution to the wind, and neverminding the lecture he was sure he’d hear later, Castiel dove through the water’s surface. Twisting and turning underwater, he let the current push him a few feet as he rolled and tumbled through the waves. When he resurfaced, he gulped for air and pushed the water from his face.

Thoroughly soaked, Castiel waded through the water, dripping from head to toe, and flopped down upon the blanket he’d laid out only moments before he’d rushed into the stream. Dean followed, never far behind.

“So how did you manage to sneak out of the castle again?” Dean asked as he sat down next to Castiel, atop the blanket.

Castiel smiled as he handed his friend an apple. “Michael’s crowning is in a week; no one notices the youngest prince when the oldest is about to be made king.”

Dean took a bite of the apple, chewing thoughtfully. “Is he taking a wife, too?”

Castiel shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I’m not really part of any of that planning.”

“A king should always have someone by his side.”

Castiel thought the statement a little funny. “There are plenty of women who’d like the crown,” he mused as he took a bite of his own apple.

“Not like that; Michael doesn’t seem to have many that he’s close to. Not like your other brother, Gabriel.”

Nodding, Castiel swallowed. “Still, I’m sure that when he’s made king, Michael will have his pick of brides.”

“And what, then? Just marry a stranger?” Whipping back his arm, Dean threw his apple core across the stream.

Again, Castiel shrugged. “I suppose he won’t have much choice. He’ll likely marry to keep the peace between a neighboring kingdom or somesuch. I hear a few of the other kingdoms are restless after such a long, dry summer.”

The latter thought seemed to have been lost on Dean. “When I marry, I want it to be for love.”

Castiel laughed as he, too, threw his apple core across the stream. “And who would love you, son of a blacksmith?”

Dean blustered. “Few, I’m sure. I’ve only the one friend; a prince who acts more like a peasant than any royalty I’ve met.”

Castiel’s laugh grew, then slowed with a sigh.

“I would if I could, you know,” Dean went on, his voice suddenly soft, his gaze caught by something - anything - other than Castiel.

Castiel canted his head. “But I’m a prince.”

“Then I’ll raise a kingdom myself.”

Even though Castiel smiled at the thought, a weary sigh fells from his lips. He turned his head and readied to speak, but the press of soft lips against his own quieted his thoughts.

Dean pulled away, a rosy blush having crept across his face, warming his skin and making his freckles look out of place. Before Castiel could speak, again his mind was quieted; Dean pressed a ring into Castiel’s hand, folding his fingers around it, already wearing its mate. They both looked at their clasped hands.

Finally, it was Castiel who spoke. “No matter what happens, I’ll always come when you call.”

“When when I raise a kingdom of my own, I’ll call upon you.”  
___

Castiel woke with a start, his mind still hazy from the memory-come-dream. He blinked in surprise as his room came into focus, the warm, soft sun of summer filtering through the gauzy curtains. A sharp knock at the door made him jump, and he closed his eyes while drawing in a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Yes?”

The serving maid entered, bowing her head respectfully. “Begging your pardon, sir. Your brother, His Majesty, sent me to wake you early today. The king requests your assistance with the rest of today’s planning.” Carrying a covered tray, the maid pushed past the doorway and brought it to rest atop Castiel’s lap.

“He sent me breakfast in bed?”

“He wishes you to come as soon as you’ve eaten and dressed, my lord. Shall I lay out your tunic for you?”

Castiel smiled and shook his head, “I can manage, but thank you.”

The maid returned his smile and bowed as she excused herself, shutting the door as she left.

Fingers leading his arms over his head, Castiel’s back arched as he stretched. His muscles drawing tight and then letting loose eased the minor pain in his neck, likely brought about from sleeping in an awkward position. He fed himself, savoring the tangy apple slices smeared with sweet cheese, and chewed the warm, fluffy bread roll as he dressed himself. Castiel neared the door before pausing, then turned back and walked again to his bedside. He pulled the top drawer of his night stand open and retrieved from it a single trinket, his most prized possession; a simple silver ring. He pushed the bauble onto the ring finger of his left hand before making his way once more across his bedroom. The warm smells of summer began blowing down the archways of castle, lighting a smile upon his face.

His eldest brother - and the crowned king - was waiting for Castiel in the great hall, sitting atop his throne and looking somewhat tired. Castiel bowed his head respectfully as he neared, and Michael looked up and nodded in acknowledgement. “Castiel, I’d like to hear your opinion on something.”

Giving his brother his full attention, Castiel nodded, ready.

Michael regarded him carefully, then began. “How would you feel about a royal wedding?”

His brow wrinkling in profound thought, Castiel weighed his words before he spoke. “I suppose it depends entirely upon the situation.”

Agreeing, Michael nodded his head and continued. “Among many of the guests that will be attending tonight’s festivities is the newly crowned king of the Southern Forests. From his letters, I can assume that he wishes to align his kingdom with ours.”

Castiel let his gaze drift, focusing his eyes on nothing in particular, but letting his mind delve deeper into thought. “The Southern Forests would prove to be a great ally, despite how new the kingdom is. The land, previously thought untameable, would provide ample ground for lumber farming, as well as fur trade. The area is also mountainous; mining might prove fruitful. Depending on the laws of the country itself, a royal wedding could easily merge their kingdom with ours, or at least prove a great ally were war to ever befall us.”

Again, Michael observed his brother with prudence before nodding his head wisely. Then, as if the matter were sorted, he let out a soft sigh and steered the conversation elsewhere. “What do you think?” Michael made a sweeping motion with his hand.

Turning around, Castiel took in the full sight of how ornate the throne room had become in just a meager three days. Banners in bold colors hung from the ceiling, each crest of the nearby kingdoms adorning them one by one, all embossed with glittering gold thread that shimmered when caught by the sunlight. Castiel smiled as his gaze then swept to the tables lining the walls, one long table sitting at least a foot higher than the rest, it alone graced with a long, flowing tablecloth. While all of the other tables were left bare, they hadn’t been left boring; deep swirls of wood peeked through the rich, dark-brown stain, the edges of each rounded in a way that acknowledged age in a dignified manner - old, but still strong; worn, but never weak. Each table was then lined with chairs, adorned with bright ribbons and cushions, the same rich colors as the banners, attached to each. And, as if not to be outdone, great arrangements of flowers were set sporadically atop the tables, tulips and lilies highlighted with carnations of nearly every shade.

When Castiel turned to his brother, Michael was smiling. “You like it as well, I take it.”

“It’s beautiful. Anna’s outdone herself.”

“She’s part of the reason I asked for you; she needs some help with some final arrangements before the festival begins tonight.”

“Of course. Chance you might know where I may find her?”

“Check the kitchens; she was squawking something about apples last I heard.”

Castiel knew Michael’s words to be teasing, and he offered his king a knowing smile. Though Michael was ruler of the Eastern Plains, he was still Castiel’s brother; it was uncouth to jest of the royal family unless, of course, you were part of the royal family.

Sure enough, Castiel found his beloved and only sister, Anna, at work in the kitchens. The head cook, elbows deep in dough, smiled at Castiel’s entrance, and a few of the scullery maids tittered as they wove around him. Anna, parchment in one hand a charcoal pencil in the other, was shouting orders to whoever wasn’t already busy.

“Castiel!” she called as Castiel twisted his way around one of the sous chefs, taking care to avoid spilling a large pot of honey.

“Michael sent me to you.”

“And thank the stars for it - I asked Balthazar and Gabriel to pick up our masks last night, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since.”

“Likely still sleeping off a drink from the pub; the Duke of the Northern Ports likes his wine as much as he likes their company.”

“Can I ask you to fetch them - as well as our masks - from town, then?”

Castiel bowed as he smiled, leaving the kitchen through the back door. As he left the castle ground via the main gate, he received a nod of recognition from the head guard.

The streets were crowded and bustling, as they usually were on the eve of the solstice. Vendors braged of goods of all different color and make, durability and longevity, and Castiel caught glimpses of things even he didn’t recognize. Once sunset neared, however, the vendors would clear their stalls and set up for the real highlight of the festival - the games!

Even the mere prospect of fun made Castiel feel giddy. Everyone - royalty included - donned masks and were made free to roam about the city, partaking in drink and the special foods that were only created for the single night of frivolity. Townsfolk were welcomed into the gardens of the palace to dance and sing and drink. The nobility first feasted in the great hall, of course, but once the meal was over, the tables would be pushed from the floor as minstrels played joyous melodies made to incite dancing and merriment. Nobles from the continent traveled many moons to be part of such a joyous occasion, and why not? It was a damn good party, if Castiel could say so himself.

Despite his anxious excitement to find what the night had in store for him, Castiel sighed dejectedly when he entered the favorite watering hole of two of his elder brothers’. Balthazar pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, a mug of water held by the other. Gabriel sat next to him, popping pieces of honey-cake into his mouth.

“Fun night?” Castiel asked, knowing full well the answer; the Duke of the Northern Ports laid on the table in front of his brothers, snoring loudly.

Gabriel sniggered, licking honey off of his forefinger. “Can’t you tell?”

“Would you two please stop screaming?” Balthazar pleaded, taking a long draught of his water.

Completely ignoring his hungover brother, both in blood and in merriment, Gabriel stood. “Anna send you to get us?”

“She’s mad you didn’t return with the masks. You know she’s had them specially ordered for months.”

“I’m sure we’ll get quite the talking to when we return, but first we need to see to His Drunkenness,” Gabriel made a motion toward the man on the table. “Fetch the masks and we’ll meet you back at the castle soon enough.”

Castiel smiled and rolled his eyes playfully. He found it amusing that his brothers had managed to get drunk - no matter how well he hid it, Castiel knew Gabriel’s head was ringing louder than the bells in the towers - before any of the festivities actually began. He wondered, vaguely, if he should fear the two might drink themselves to death, but dismissed the thought; they’d weathered years of bodily abuse at the hands of frivolity for the solstices thus far - why would one more night make a difference?

The blacksmith, a great beast of a man, laid down his hammer as Castiel approached.

“I had them ready last night, but no one came.”

Castiel shook his head. “You can take your pick of who is to blame; Balthazar or Gabriel. Though, if you’d like, I can give you a hint: they were partners in crime.”

The blacksmith let out a barking laugh, rough like the skin of his hands after so much use. He pointed to the sack near the door, just a few steps from where Castiel stood. “I was going to send my boy up to the castle with them if no one showed up by noon.”

Bowing in apology, Castiel took up the bag of masks and angled it over his shoulder so that carrying them might be easier. “Thanks, again.”

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with the castle,” the blacksmith called as Castiel wandered back onto the streets.

When Castiel returned to the castle, he offered the bag from the blacksmith to Anna. She reached inside, procuring several smaller bags, each one with a name stitched into the fabric below the draw-string close. Smiling, she handed one to Castiel.

His excitement was growing. Anna had promised him a special treat for his mask this year. And Anna, ever creative in all that she endeavored, had never let him down when it came to designing his solstice mask, and he knew this year would be no different. Still, to peek early would be to ruin the surprise, so after the bag was in his hand, Castiel made his way back to his bedroom and left the bag on the top of his dresser.

Morning was passing quickly, but no matter how Castiel prayed, it simply was not quick enough. He helped Anna finish her work in the gardens, directing where tables would be placed, and how many lanterns would line the walk. Eventually, Gabriel and Balthazar tried to sneak back into the castle, and, after a good railing from Anna, were sent on their way to dress and prepare for the welcoming feasts, hungover or not.

The heat of late afternoon gave way to the cooling breeze as nightfall approached. At long last, it was time. Castiel adjusted his doublet, admiring how the color of the fabric mirrored his eyes. Biting his lip, impatient with himself, he opened the bag and pulled free his mask. He gasped at the beauty of it. Overlain supple leather were tiny, silver studs in the shape of stars, and laid amongst the stars were thin, shining silver feathers. Running his fingers over the delicate details, Castiel smiled to himself.

It was perfect.

He pressed it against his face and tied it in place.

Castiel took a deep breath, adjusted the ring on his finger, then strode into the hallway, a masked prince ready for a night of frippery, festivity, and fun.

He met up with Anna near the gates and pulled her into a tight hug, whispering his thanks.

“You’re not supposed to know it’s me, silly. We’re masked, remember?”

Castiel winked at her before he disappeared into the crowd, laughing with every step. It was true, to a degree - the whole point of the masquerade was to make the playing field equal. Even though Michael, too, was wearing a mask, there were guards strategically placed in the crowds to make sure nothing happened to the crown. 

The traditions behind the festival weren’t lost on Castiel; as part of the royal family, knowledge about such things had been drilled into his head at a very young age. It was said that once, long ago, there was a mighty king who ruled over all lands with an iron fist. Though he was a formidable man, he was still human, and after years of ruling with no one by his side, the king decided to take a wife. Despite all manner of the nobility offering their daughters to him, the king found no love in his heart for any of them, and so could not bring himself to choose. To ease his aching heart, the king fled the castle, into the forests, in hopes that a hunt might distract him. But after searching the trees for any bit of sport, the only being that the king found was a young woman by a streamside. When he approached, the girl was startled and fired an arrow at him, for she thought him to be some manner of beast. The woman, however, realised it was a man a moment too late, for the arrow had already pierced his shoulder. In the blink of an eye she was at his side, tending to his wound. So close, the king could see how beautiful the woman was, and the way she tended his wound made his heart ache; he knew this woman would be his wife. But when the king asked the woman to marry him, she simply laughed for she had no idea who the man was, what title he held; too taken up by her beauty and kindness, he didn’t have the wit to inform her of his identity. Once his wound was cleaned and bandaged, they parted ways. The king, however, slowly became sick from a broken heart, and his health began to fall. Doctors from all over the lands came and attempted to heal the king, but nothing they did could cure his body for it was his soul which was sick. At long last, out of options, the citizens began sending their own remedies to the castle, from herbalists to those trained in acupuncture, and all manner inbetween. And that was where the king again found his beloved; she had heard her king had fallen ill, and so she came to help. Aghast at how she’d treated him before, the woman apologized. Just as before, the king asked for her hand. This time the woman knew exactly who he was, but still she denied him. When the king asked as to why, the woman answered simply; ‘for you are a king and I am a simple maiden from the forests.’ And so the king took up a mask, hiding his face from hers, and placed one to her own face as well. The king proclaimed them, then, to be even, and for the third time asked for her hand. The woman, so moved by the king’s reverence of her, enough that he proclaimed them as equals, accepted, and thus the tradition was born; a masquerade for the king who set aside all titles for the woman he loved.

Castiel smiled to himself as he went over the story again in his head, imaging what it would be like to be loved so. He felt a blush creep over him as memories of his dream surfaced, of his first kiss, his first love. But that seemed like lifetimes away, no matter how Castiel wished things had turned out differently. Dean had left the capital the morning after he’d given Castiel his ring, after he promised to rise a kingdom from nothing with its own rules so that none might come to challenge them. But Dean never called upon him, and so Castiel was never able to answer.

Admonishing himself for allowing such thoughts to make him saddened before such a night of celebration, Castiel steeled himself, drawing his chest out as he took a deep breath. Some things, he knew, could not be changed.

The sun was just beginning to dip under the rolling hills as Castiel and the others were ushered into the great hall to begin the feast. Even the youngest prince gets a seat at the royal table, after all, despite the entire table wearing masks in a vague attempt to hide their true identity. 

Excitedly, Castiel looked throughout the dining hall, taking in the fashion for the festivities. The Duke of the Northern Ports was, to Castiel’s surprise, upright - despite his mask, there was no masking the Duke’s rather prominent nose. He’d been sleeping off one hell of a hangover when Castiel last saw him, lying prone atop the pub’s table, but seemed to be fine as he sipped from his goblet. His two young daughters were seated on either side of him, both dressed in beautifully made, flowing gowns. Their masks were decorated with precious stones set to look like scales, mimicking those of the fish that had made their land prosperous.

Next, Castiel spotted the sisters who ruled the Western Wilds; identical twins who both took the crown. While they looked the same, garbed in beautiful, feathery dresses and masks to match, Castiel knew from experience how different they truly were. Anywhere else might think a kingdom’s people mad to be ruled by two sisters, but their range of opinion made them fiercely devoted to doing what was best for the kingdom, each sister keeping the other in line. And beautiful, too; Castiel knew that through the night the sisters would not want for company either in drink or dance.

It was then that Castiel spotted a gathering of people he couldn’t recall ever seeing before. Seated amongst the center of the table were two men, both outfitted in black doublets, silver thread and buttons accenting their garb. It was their masks, however, that caught Castiel’s attention; both were decorated leather, intricate embroidery giving the mask a look of depth that Castiel had never seen before. But more eye-catching than the stitching was the almost grotesque horns that protruded from the sides of the mask, near the wearer’s temples; curled, spired, and looking much like the horns of a ram.

Castiel caught himself staring, his eyes tracing the delicate intricacies even halfway across the room.

And suddenly one of the mask wearers turned and caught Castiel’s gaze.

Feeling suddenly embarrassed, Castiel’s shoulders stiffened; he hadn’t meant to be staring, or at least he hadn’t meant to have been caught. But the eyes of the mask wearer caught his own, and Castiel couldn’t help but hold his gaze.

Until, that is, the most gentle, warmest of smiles blossomed on the masked man’s face.

Castiel suddenly found something deeply interesting on his plate. He speared his fruit with his fork and brought it to his mouth, his cheeks burning, his eyes never wandering from what had been set before him upon the table.

Anna elbowed him. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

Castiel bit his lip, bringing up his gaze. He looked first to his sister, then, slowly, he looked across the room to the horned mystery man. He was, much to Castiel’s embarrassment, still staring directly at him, this time wearing a crooked smile. Again averting his gaze, Castiel leaned toward Anna. “There’s someone staring at me,” he finally whispered, feeling strange.

Anna laughed. “It’s a party, Castiel, and you’re an eligible prince. This isn’t the first time you’ve caught someone’s eye.”

This statement only made Castiel recede further into his chair, and he felt his cheeks flush even deeper. Sure, he was a prince, but Castiel hadn’t really put thought behind the statement of ‘eligibility’ before. He supposed that, yes, he was unwed and not involved with anyone, but, being the youngest in a large family, he hadn’t really before seen the point; he was alright with his life and his place among his family. Yes, he was young, but Castiel prided himself on being somewhat of a scholar. Michael, after all, often asked for his opinion during meetings with the nobility.

But to hear from Anna that it wasn’t the first time he’d caught someone’s eye came as somewhat of a surprise. Had he really been so oblivious before? He tried to think on the matter, wracking his brain for any instance in which he might have caught someone’s attention or fancy, and found that he simply was not experienced enough - or perhaps observant - to discern when, if at all, he had.

He looked up for a third time, and found relief pulse through him; the horned man was leaning to the taller man beside him, whispering something close to his ear.

Suddenly, both of their eyes turned and fixated on Castiel.

To his absolute relief, the minstrels took up their instruments and began to play, signaling to all those in the dining hall that the dancefloor would soon be cleared of tables to make room for frolicing and frivolity. Castiel excused himself from the table and practically shot out the doors that led to the courtyard, eager to escape the intense gaze of his mysterious stranger. Besides, the games set up by the citizens of the capital city was where Castiel truly loved to be around on the night of the solstice. Only the blacksmith and his apprentice knew what mask the youngest prince wore, and Castiel found it refreshing to be treated less like royalty and more like a simple person. Ture, his mask was of quite a higher quality than most, but there were jewels among the rough throughout the city and its inhabitants, masks passed down from generation to generation that were still as beautiful as the ones even the king himself wore.

Castiel bought a tankard of honey-sweetened wine and joined several men singing a shanty at the end of the block. One of them played his lute while he sang, both his fingers and his voice off-key from so much drink, and Castiel laughed with the men as if he’d known them his entire life. When his tankard was empty, he received a clap on the back before the man promptly puked in the streets. Offending shouts sounded in all directions, and Castiel, feeling both light on his feet and in his head, scampered down an alleyway and into an adjacent street.

He perused the streets as the night wore on, stopping and exchanging coin for a chance to win what the vendors boasted as fabulous prizes. Said prizes varied from stall to stall - buttons hand-carved from shell, strands of whittled wooden beads, powdered dyes, sweet meats and cakes - and Castiel could not imagine being happier. His pockets half full, split between the remainder of his coin and what prizes he’d manage to win, Castiel finally spotted a prize he truly wanted. It was a simple dagger, with a handle made of bone. True, being a prince came with wealth, but Castiel knew the knife would hold an even deeper meaning if he could win it instead of simply paying for it.

Besides, the games were his favorite part of the solstice! 

Castiel slapped a copper penny down, grinning. A somewhat dirty old woman grinned and handed him three lightweight, wooden balls.

Taking careful aim, Castiel tossed the first of his three balls toward the table, holding his breath. The ball bounced off the rim of several cups before it settled into one without a color rim. The vendor hissed at Castiel’s bad luck; a cup without a colored rim wins nothing.

Trying to focus, and beginning to regret downing an entire tankard of wine, Castiel inhaled deeply, attempting to ease the tension from his shoulders. He let loose the second ball which proved no luckier than the first, landing with a thump into one of the unmarked cups. Swearing under his breath, Castiel picked up the third ball and steadied his hand, focusing all he could on the task at hand. Thump-thump-thump; the bouncing of the wooden ball matched the beat of Castiel’s heart. Finally, the ball settled. The rim was yellow; second tier.

Castiel bit his lip, pleased he won yet still disappointed he hadn’t managed to win the knife. He took his prize from the array the vendor offered - a shining, bright green apple - and pulled another coin from his pocket.

The vendor, however, turned her attention to the customer across the booth, and Castiel jumped noticeably when he saw it was the horned-man from the feast back at the castle. The man placed his coin on the counter, looking up from his hands and meeting Castiel’s surprised gaze. Then, the man winked as he took up the three balls and tossed them all at once at the cups.

Castiel watched all three settle - the first in an unmarked cup, the second in a blue-rimmed cup, and the third in a yellow-rimmed up - and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. So the prince placed another copper penny on the counter, and the spark of friendly competition ignited in his veins.

He tossed them one by one again, and while he didn’t land any in the red cup in the center, each ball landed him a prize; a small wheel of goat cheese, a pin fashioned out of a small shell, and another apple. True he hadn’t won the knife, but a small sliver of pride welled up in him regardless. All of this, Castiel realized, was done while the stranger stared at him intently, as he had back at the feast.

The man tossed another copper penny up, and, just as the previous time, he threw all three balls toward the cups at once.

Castiel’s heart sunk; the stranger had landed one of his balls inside the red cup in the center. The vendor cheered wildly, pulling the prize from the shelf and handing it to the victor.

Bowing his head once to acknowledge defeat, Castiel offered the stranger a small smile before he turned on his heel. While disappointed he hadn’t won the knife, Castiel wasn’t the type to sulk over such a small matter. The stranger had one it fairly, after all.

He had hardly made it a street away before a heavy hand was at his shoulder, gently tugging him to turn around.

For just the barest of moments, Castiel felt panic rise up through him. Who could possibly want his attention? Few people knew what mask the youngest prince wore.

Castiel’s breath caught when he turned and found the horned-man. Bolstering what little courage he could, ruffling, Castiel spoke. “Why are you following me?”

The stranger didn’t offer a single word as a retort. Instead, Castiel found fingers curling around his right hand, while something hard was pressed into his palm.

He looked down, confused; in his grip was the knife the stranger had won.

Bringing up his gaze to meet that of the masked man, Castiel narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

The masked stranger smiled, toothy and somewhat crooked. “I won it for you.”

His brow momentarily wrinkled in thought. “You what?” To Castiel, the idea made little sense. “Why?”

A somewhat confused look painted the stranger’s face, and the man shook his head as if he didn’t understand what he’d been asked. “I wanted to get your attention so that I might speak with you. It was as good of an excuse as any.”

Looking from the masked man then to his knife, and then back to the stranger once more, Castiel nearly choked on his words. “I - ah - I - well, thank you, I suppose. But I don’t feel I can take it from you. You won it fairly.”

“I won it so that I might offer it to you and begin a conversation.” The way the man explained his reasoning seemed as though it might be easy to follow, but still Castiel couldn’t understand him.

“But, why?”

The stranger regarded him for a long moment, then threw his head back and laughed. Castiel jumped at the sound, still not completely comprehending what, exactly, was going on. “Were you always this suspicious?”

For whatever reason, the statement caused Castiel to blush, and he felt as though, perhaps, he was the butt of some strange joke.

His laughter slowing, the stranger wedged the tips of his fingers under the corners of his mask, wiping away tears of mirth. “Alright, then - the why,” he offered, laughter slowed but smile still plastered to his face. “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

Castiel’s brows knit together. “You stared at me all through dinner, then won a knife for me, all on the basis that I look like someone you used to know?”

The stranger shrugged his shoulders, laughter not sounding but still present in his eyes.

Swallowing, still feeling as though he didn’t quite get the joke, Castiel bowed his head respectfully. “Thank you.”

“Some start to a conversation.”

Castiel grimaced. “Apologies. I’m not really that much of a conversationalist.”

“I’ve been enjoying it so far.”

Ducking his head just a bit, Castiel felt another blush creep onto his face, even though he couldn’t quite figure out why. “Was - was there anything in particular you were looking to ask of me, or talk to me about?” He tried to stay polite, even though he was avoiding meeting the gaze of his conversational partner.

The laughter left the man’s face and was replaced by a look Castiel couldn’t quite gauge. Perhaps if the man wasn’t wearing a mask he might be able to place it, but the leather hid enough of the man’s features that Castiel couldn’t quite name the emotion.

“You wear a ring - are you taken?”

Castiel’s eyes flew to his hands, and he realized that he was fiddling with his ring, the plain trinket that was so dear to him. His mouth fumbled over his words as his fingers fumbled over trying to rid his digit of the ring. “No - I - uh - no, I’m not - not - taken. It’s just a trinket.”

Their eyes caught, and for the briefest of moments Castiel thought he recognized pain the man’s gaze. But it was gone as quickly as it had surfaced, leaving Castiel not even sure he saw it in the first place.

“It seems such a plain thing for a prince to wear.”

Biting his lip, Castiel shrugged. “Someone very dear gave it to me. It might have little value were I to trade it for coin, but to me there is no named price I would trade for it.”

There it was again, this time Castiel was sure of it - the flash of pain in the man’s gaze. Still, he could not place the reason behind it, and he felt, perhaps, it was not his business to try. “Is that what you wished to speak to me of? My ring? You seem to already know my identity.” Carefully, Castiel pushed the ring into his pocket, lying a protective hand atop the bump of fabric it made.

Quickly as the pain had faded from his face, the stranger replaced the look with a smile. “It’s hard not to name you a prince after having seen you sit at the raised table with the rest of the royal family. Why did you flee so quickly into the city?”

Castiel wanted to reply with, “to get free of your piercing gaze,” but he knew it was too rude. After all, even though the man had dined in the great hall, Castiel had no idea as to his true identity. Instead of offering a lie, however, he offered the man a simple sliver of truth. “The games are my favorite part of the solstice; I like walking the streets feeling like a common man, and it’s really the only time I feel I am able to.”

“Ah, I hear ya,” the stranger offered. “Noble life can be a real pain sometimes.”

The plainness in which the stranger suddenly spoke with caught Castiel off guard. Perhaps the man before him was truly seeking someone to converse with. He let a small smile befall his lips. “I suppose it’s easier for me, being the youngest in line. I can be quietly swept to the corner easily enough.”

“Have a drink with me,” the man pleaded, leaning his head slightly toward Castiel.

Castiel worked his mouth for several moments, trying to think of something to say. What the man had asked of him was not something he’d ever been asked before. Anna’s words whispered in the back of his mind - ‘It’s a party, Castiel, and you’re an eligible prince. This isn’t the first time you’ve caught someone’s eye.’ - causing Castiel to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. He’d never had any type of suitor before, least of all a man.

The masked man caught Castiel’s hesitation, however, and scrubbed at the back of his head. “Am I being too forward?”

Another swallow. Castiel shook his head, letting out a small breath. “I’m just not used to such focused attention. And I still don’t know who you are.”

A mischievous grin twisted the stranger’s mouth, and Castiel found it, somehow, oddly fixating. “What’s the point of the masquerade if you know who’s behind the mask?”

Allowing himself to think for a moment, Castiel took in a deep breath of air and held it as his mind turned within the confines of his skull. This man, this strange aristocrat, couldn’t possibly be interested in Castiel for the simple sake of Castiel, or so the gears churning in his brain told him. He was the youngest in a long wait for the crown, and, well, he mostly thought himself boring. How many other princes might fill their spare time with reading up on the lore and folk tales of his kingdom?

“If you’re seeking an audience with my brother-” Castiel began.

A somewhat impatient bark of laughter came from the stranger’s mouth as he raised Castiel’s hand to his lips, gently brushing them against the back of his hand. “I’ve little interest in your brother,” he offered, his eyes hooded as he gazed up at Castiel.

Perhaps it was the thrill of any number of possibilities - the novel of knowing someone wished for his company not because of who he was associated with but, rather, who he was, or the churning, delicious fear of diving head-first into the unknown - but after several heartbeats, Castiel’s resolve crumbled. After all, on the night of the solstice he was no longer a prince but instead a common man - a free man - able to direct his decisions by means of his heart instead of his head.

The stranger only wanted a drink, a single drink, and Castiel could find no harm in that. Perhaps the man was simply starved for company - and could he be blamed? It wasn’t exactly the party of the century back at the castle. Most of the other nobles or royals were either a decade older than Castiel, or a decade younger. No matter how beautifully the great hall was decorated, royals could always be counted on to be a stiff bunch.

Finally, Castiel smiled and bowed his head politely, pulling his hand free of the stranger’s gentle grasp. For a nobleman, the man’s hands were cracked with callouses, but Castiel put the thought from his head and he raised himself to stand tall. “A drink sounds very nice.” The smile he wore was simple, real.

One drink didn’t stay one drink; it turned into two, three, five, ten - Castiel lost count, and couldn’t bring himself to understand why he might have cared in the first place. But, what with his brothers being such notorious booze hounds, Castiel was well aware of his limit. Instead of drinking the same drink - despite honey-wine being his favorite - as he and his masked companion paraded through the night, they sampled drinks off a handful of vendors and pubs alike, some of them reeking of alcohol while others contained not a drop.

And as they spoke to one another, Castiel came to find that the nobleman sharing his company hardly seemed noble at all. In fact, a good stretch into the night, the still unnamed stranger leaned his head toward Castiel, asking him if he could keep a secret.

Either he was giddy with delight or drink, Castiel hiccuped as he leaned closer, feeling that, perhaps for the first time in a long while, he might have made himself a dear friend.

“So we’re at the bottom of this canyon, right? Bottom of this canyon, and my brother and I are riding this pair of pack mules-”

“Pack mules?” Castiel’s incredulous smile was so large that he couldn’t keep his lips pressed together.

“Yeah, these two dinky little mules, older than dirt I swear. And as we’re on our way back up the canyon, it’s beautiful. Sunrise, the hills softly glowing - it was amazing. And then - and then the poor thing under me just starts farting-”

Castiel the prince should have wrinkled his nose at such a base thing as an animal passing wind. Castiel the masked man, however, had tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.

“The whole time, it just wouldn’t stop. And my brother, poor kid, is stuck behind me, crying his eyes out. I mean bawling, banshee screams.”

It’s then that Castiel, gasping for breath, dropped his mug, the earthenware piece shattering into pieces at his feet.

The barkeep, with a grouse voice, berated him, and Castiel and his companion dashed off into the night, both laughing as they ran through the streets. At the end of the few blocks, they paused to catch their breath, fits of laughter still welling up through them.

“What time is it?”

Castiel shrugged. “Late enough for my family to begin worrying, I’m sure.”

The horned man scratched the stubble at his chin, regarding Castiel with a somewhat peculiar look. “Think we should head back?”

“I’m not running back, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” The remark earned Castiel a bark of a laugh, and the two began their march back toward the castle. As they neared, the streets began to quiet and clear, vendors packing up their coin and left-over prizes. Watching the peddlers pack up their provisions, Castiel caught a stray thought. He dug in his rucksack and pulled free the two apples he’d won, as well as the small wheel of cheese. He tossed one of the apples to his companion, then pulled free the knife he’d been gifted, slicing small wedges from the cheese. Carefully balancing the cheese between the blade of his knife and his thumb, Castiel offered his strange friend a bite.

“Anything to get the taste of that stale mead out of my mouth.”

Castiel smiled as he shaved himself a piece of cheese, popping it into his mouth and biting into his apple directly after. Slice, bite, slice, bite - Castiel continued this way until both the apple and the cheese were no more. He wiped the blade of the knife on the end of his sleeve, then delicately returned it to his bag.

Much to Castiel’s surprise, the hall was still somewhat bustling when he and his companion passed through the great wooden doors. The minstrels were winding the crowd down, however, playing slow renditions of popular songs to ease the mind as the party grew to a close.

Before he could open his mouth and bid his newfound friend goodnight, the man in question pulled Castiel by his wrists onto the dancefloor, winding one arm around his back while the other laced with his fingers, kept at shoulder height.

More surprised than flustered, Castiel let out a weak laugh as he was swept across the floor in a slow, swaying motion.

“What is it we’re doing?”

The masked man pressed his cheek against Castiel’s temple. “Dancing.”

Castiel huffed a sigh. “I can see that. Why?”

“You don’t ever tire of asking that, do you?”

Castiel wasn’t able to respond, his tongue feeling sluggish and sticky in his mouth.

“Though, you’re right to be suspicious.”

Castiel pulled back, meeting the stranger’s gaze. In such close proximity, he could see that the man’s eyes were the warmest shade of green he’d ever seen.

“I don’t understand.”

“I sought you out tonight to make sure of something.”

“Make sure? Make sure of what?”

The horned man stepped back, letting Castiel’s arms fall to his sides. Castiel watched as the man pulled his mask free.

What happened next, while only spanning several second in time, felt like an eternity to Castiel.

First and foremost, the man, letting his mask fall to the floor, bent to one knee before Castiel.

Then, the entire room fell silent, and Castiel was sure that everyone around him could hear his heartbeat. The man spoke, but he might as well have been screaming underwater for all Castiel could hear him.

The young prince sputtered. “Wh-what?”

“I, the king of the Southern Forests, ask you, Castiel, youngest prince of the Eastern Plains, for your hand in marriage.”

Dumbfounded, Castiel found that, while his mouth was moving, he could make no sound.

A swift movement, just past the kneeling king, caught Castiel’s gaze; his brother, Michael, his face impassive, nodded once.

And just like that, Castiel felt his world crumble apart.

That’s why Michael had asked his thoughts regarding a royal marriage that morning. 

That was why the man, patiently, anxiously, kneeling at his feet had been so keen to spend time with him.

Castiel knew that he could not defy his brother, knew he could not deny not one but two kings.

And so, with great tears brimming in his eyes, Castiel nodded his head, not trusting his voice to form anything other than a wail of pain for all that he felt slip through his fingers that night; his freedom, his dreams, his family, his kingdom - the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings for this chapter: none


	2. Chapter Two (Castiel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers will be listed at the bottom of each chapter.
> 
>  
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> **Art for this chapter provided by the amazing[madches](http://madches.tumblr.com/)**

Castiel had cried himself dry. The skin around his eyes was puffy and pink, sore and lightly dusted with salt from where his tears had dried. He’d had two panic attacks through the night, and he’d curled up underneath the warm, soft blankets for each, sobbing quietly into his down pillows so as not to let the staff hear his pain and fear.

He felt betrayed by his brother - a man he had always previously considered fair and just - and worse yet by the strange king, who’d lulled Castiel into comfort in his company, making the prince feel safe and welcomed before the whole night came crashing down.

The rest of that night was a blur, a series of events and conversations that Castiel wracked his brain with the effort of trying to remember. But, try as he might, he came up with nothing.

Much to his regret, the same happened the next day; Castiel was so overwhelmed that it seemed as if his mind was purposefully pushing things away so that the stress of it all didn’t completely throttle him. It was decided that the wedding - without Castiel’s input, it is to be noted - would commence two days after the solstice, so that all of the neighboring rulers might attend. Castiel knew he’d been fitted for wedding attire, but he had no recollection of the event taking place. Just the same, he was sure he’d been asked what his favorite flowers and colors were, but he couldn’t recall who had asked him.

If one thing was for sure, however, it was that after he’d been swept off the dancefloor the night of the solstice, he’d been purposefully kept from his betrothed. Another custom of the kingdom that Castiel had spent time reading up on, he found it somewhat ironic that he once felt the knowledge would somehow never prove useful to him. It was a somewhat superstitious practice of his land, that those to be wed would be kept apart at least one day ahead of the wedding. People saw it as a way to clear the mind of those looking to join their lives together, a time to reflect and determine if it was what their hearts truly wanted. It was said to enter a marriage with anything but love would bring little but bad luck to the couple. Castiel almost let out a bitter laugh over his separation from his intended, given all the actual choice he had in the matter. Almost.

He stood and washed his face, knowing that he’d be ushered into his wedding garments at any moment by a gaggle of giggling maids, all tittering with excitement for the, albeit impromptu, wedding. Having a tear-stained face simply wouldn’t do, he could her Anna’s kind voice soothe him. But she’d been absent the day before, likely busy in helping plan the wedding in ways that Castiel wasn’t able to. She was, after all, known for how wonderful of parties she put together. And why shouldn’t she be happy? Her little brother was getting married, and to a king no less. 

Castiel bit into the wash cloth, choking down a sob. It was wrong of him to think of Anna with nothing less than kind and supportive words. But she wasn’t with him - she’d been vacant from his life since the moment the king of the Southern Forests got down on one knee - and no matter how much Castiel wished her to be beside him, he understood that, while she might offer him a hand to squeeze, there was nothing else she could do for him.

A knock sounded at the door, and Castiel quickly dunked his washcloth into the water basin again, scrubbing his face quite roughly. What better way to hide swollen eyes than with a face that was pink enough to match?

The maids entered, arms full of clothing and flowers, ribbon and thread, and Castiel wondered how he might keep from screaming. He bit his tongue. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough for spikes of pain to shoot through his vision, hard enough to distract his mind with a dull ache other than the one in his chest.

He was stripped and bathed, anointed with perfumes, shaved, dressed, and fawned over. The maids carefully sewed fresh flowers into his doublet, and wove a crown of flowers to rest upon his head. They pressed the flower crown over the white gauze that made up his veil, and he moved like a man possessed, an automaton, as they then pressed a bouquet into his hands. Whatever they said fell on deaf ears, for Castiel had retreated into his mind.

(art provided by the amazing [madches](http://madches.tumblr.com/))

The maids left his room, allowing him a moment of peace before he swore his life to another. Castiel closed his eyes, willing himself to keep his tears inside - not that he had any left - looking around his room for what he was sure would likely be the last time. On the dresser he spotted them, his ring and his dagger. One symbolized an old dream, faded but never forgotten, while the other held the future, sharp and unforgiving. 

Without thinking, he slid the ring on his finger and tucked the knife into his boot.

A sharp knock on the door made him jump, and he righted himself quickly, checking the mirror before pulling the veil back over his face. To his surprise, Gabriel and Balthazar entered, a single flower sewn to the right breast of each of their doublets. They smiled warmly, brightly, and not for the first time that day Castiel choked down a sob. They each came to him, enveloping their brother dear in a hug, none of them speaking a word.

Castiel took a deep breath, set his jaw, and walked to his fate.

He paused at the doorway of the great hall, Gabriel and Balthazar standing before him. They each took a handle of the grand doors and pulled. Everyone stood as Castiel entered, and, almost far away, someone started the play the harp.

His footsteps were heavy, his shoes feeling as though they were made of stone. With each step, his heart clenched tighter and tighter.

And it was all made worse by the expression the king wore. Intense green eyes followed Castiel’s every movement, thin, pink lips parting ever so slightly as if in reverence. For all that Castiel wished to be anywhere else on the planet, it looked as though the man waiting for him at the altar could think of no other place he wanted to stand. The reverence shining, unabashed, in the king’s eyes very nearly knocked the wind from Castiel’s lungs. How could a man who’d hardly spent a single night in his company look as though he adored him so?

Castiel took a shaking breath inward, and though he tried to quiet it, it sounded more like a strangled gasp. The king instantly took a step toward him, worry written clearly across his face. When Castiel continued down the aisle, it felt as though everyone in the room released a breath they hadn’t known they’d been holding.

And then Castiel found himself at the end, ascending the small set of stairs to stand next to his promised, facing the priest.

Whatever the holy man said, however, might as well have been in another language for all Castiel was able to hear. All that echoed in his head was his heartbeat, all that moved were his shaking fingers, and all of the tears that he thought he’d expended threatened to overwhelm him.

He jumped when he felt a gentle touch, a hand taking his and holding it gently, with a tenderness Castiel knew was undeserved. He turned to face the king, his mouth hot and dry, his voice stuck in his throat.

But what happened next was what truly threatened to overwhelm him; the king - a crowned royal, a leader of men and conqueror of lands thought untameable - bent and took a knee.

Everyone froze, unblinking, unbreathing.

And the words that fell from the mouth of the king were what finally broke Castiel’s heart.

“I hope you grant me the chance to make up for the years absent from your company, and allow me to build even greater memories from this day forward. I pray that you keep your patience and kindness at the forefront of your arsenal when we battle, and tend my wounds and forgive my transgressions when the fights are over. I wish you to forgive my sins, and help deliver me from the temptation of them further, forever by my side as I stand, faithfully, at yours.”

The room was so tense it had shifted well past oppressive. A man may fall to his knees at the sight of his beloved, but a king? One that had known his betrothed for hardly the span of half a day?

And it only worsened.

The king, with a soft, almost sad smile, pulled the ring Castiel had absent-mindedly pushed onto his finger, replacing it with a soft, glittering gold band. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the king brought Castiel’s hand to his mouth, gently kissing the ring he’d only a heartbeat ago slid onto the finger.

Castiel broke. He let out a choking sob, a pained keen as he pulled his hand free and took a step backward.

The king rose, stepping toward him, hurt and worry replacing the gentle tenderness from heartbeats ago. Castiel caught a movement from the corner of his eye, his gaze meeting that of his brother, Michael, who wore a look that toed the border of blatant disbelief.

“I can’t,” Castiel whispered.

He shook his head, taking another step backward, letting the bouquet fall from his hands. “I can’t,” he choked out again, turning and falling into a run.

His feet carried him so swiftly out the door that Castiel wondered if, like lightning, thunder echoed behind him with each footfall. He was a streak of motion as he sprinted through the kitchens, through the courtyard, and neared the gate. The call of his name was shouted after him, but the damage had already been done; to turn back now would only make matters worse. 

It only made sense, then, to steal one of the horses at the gate. After all, how much more trouble could he really get into?

Castiel skidded to a halt near one of the horses, the closest one in a set that, obviously, had been placed at the gate for he and his would be - no, at that point it was would have been - and, without missing a step, propelled himself upward and swung his leg over the saddle, gripping tight to the horn of the saddle as he leaned over and smacked the companion horse on the rump. Both creatures reared, Castiel clinging desperately to one of them, and took off through the streets.

People fell over themselves while trying to escape the path of the horses, though the companion beast to Castiel’s mount eventually slowed in the streets to a trot. Regardless, he knew that none of the horse soldiers would be ready, at least not for such an event. He heard no shouts of his name after he’d passed the castle walls, and as he neared the western gate of the city, he let loose shouts of his own. A cry for his freedom, which he thought he’d lost; a cry for his family, who he’d left behind, and another for himself, as adrenaline pumped through his veins and made the rush of blood in his limbs feel icy like a springwell in the summertime.

It didn’t matter where he was going, he was free.

The capital city became a dot on the horizon before Castiel slowed. He’d run his poor horse to it’s death if he kept up such a pace, but the idea that he was safe was silly. He was free for the moment, but when Michael and every other royal family began their search for him, no place would be safe.

His horse still breathing hard, Castiel took a moment to dismount and let the poor beast rest. He guided it to the streamside not far off, letting the poor creature drink its fill.

Castiel caught his reflection in the stream, a pang of guilt lurching in his stomach. With a quiet motion, almost in some form of shame, he plucked the flower crown from his head, pulling free the gauzy material that made up his veil. Then, with his fingers and his breath heavy, he began to pull free the flowers that had been stitched to his clothing.

For a brief, terrifying moment, Castiel allowed himself to ponder the possibility that he’d made a mistake.

Then, with a deep breath, he decided to push the thought from his head.

He’d always tried to be perfect; he didn’t lose himself to wine or spirits, kept his temper under control, did well in his studies and kept from complaining whenever he could. He knew all of the customs and traditions the other kingdoms practiced or recognized, was well-learned and polite and gracious in manner.

But it had always been for someone else.

Of course he had an image to keep up; he was a royal. And, despite being the youngest in line for the throne, he still had been raised as if he might take on the role someday.

Plucking off the last flower from his doublet, Castiel steeled his heart. From that moment forward, he would live for himself. He would find out what it meant to be his own man.

He washed his face in the stream, scrubbing his skin with the veil. When he finished, he wrung the fabric out to dry, then pulled his horse back upon the bank. With almost shaking hands, Castiel lifted free the strap of the buckled saddlebag, wondering what little supplies he’d been lucky enough to take with him.

Along with the knife in his boot, the ring on his finger, the cloth in his hands and the clothes on his back, Castiel found himself lucky with what he pulled free from the bag. Inside of it was a change of clothes - simple breeches and a tunic - several apples, several strips of dried meat, a waterskin, an extra blanket, a handful of coin, and a small tin that held flintrock and steel.

Castiel stripped of the formal clothes, glad that he hadn’t seen anyone one the road for miles. Carefully, he folded up the wedding attire and donned the simpler clothes. He packed the folded fabric into the saddlebag, along with the rest of his other supplies, then remounted.

His pace was slower, so as not to hurt or fatigue his horse, but he knew he’d have to keep it up for some time before he was out of range for simple palace guards to catch up to him. None of those attending the solstice festival took more than a small group for protection on the road, but Castiel knew that it would only be a matter of time before they’d be after him.

Castiel knew Michael would send troops after him. This was not merely a marriage spurned, but, much to Castiel’s great dismay, he’d turned his back on his family, rebelled. And all for what? So he didn’t have to get married?

Shaking his head rigorously, Castiel once again pushed all thought from his head. “I will be my own man, live for no one but myself.” He spoke aloud, as if his words were a spell that might bind him to his newly decided fate.

Until sunset, he kept upon his horse, keeping the creature going at a pace that wouldn’t harm it. It was slow-going, but Castiel knew that he had little more than a half-days head start. His brother would likely send his best trackers after him, and it was little secret that the king of the Southern Forests was a master tracker himself. After all, the Southern Forests had gone untamed for centuries; a man who could tame the wilderness would be little else.

As night approached and the road before him became lost in the darkness, Castiel tied his horse to one of the few, paltry trees that occasionally dotted the streamside that followed the curve of the road. Even though summer was officially upon him, Castiel knew that the temperature would drop quite a bit more as the landscape was enveloped further in darkness. Still, he refrained from making a fire to warm himself; the plains were little naught but rolling hillsides for as far as the eye could see, and he knew that the light given off would only attract attention. Regardless, the sweet song of the crickets lulled him to sleep.

The following day, he passed many on the road, which wasn’t at all unusual given the time of year, but he couldn’t help the worry that washed over him as he passed each group or single traveler. Castiel was well aware of the fact that he looked out of place sitting atop his white horse with gilded saddle and bags, shoes that weren’t riddled with holes and clothing that wasn’t more pathwork than whole piece. It would only be a matter of time before the trackers sent from the capital would cross paths with those that he passed. 

So, on the third night out on the open road, Castiel decided to no longer venture upon it. He was careful to wander from the trampled path and into the knee-high prairie grass, knowing that the dense earth under the shoes of his horse won’t show well. Despite the size of his mount, the horse left little but a small trail in his wake, and Castiel knew that, given a scant few hours, his trail will be gone. The winds of the hills, after all, are heavy, twisting at the grass like waves at sea.

On the seventh day, however, Castiel felt as though he should have remained on the road just a few days longer. His meager rations of food have long-since been depleted, and the vast expanse of plains in every direction make him worry he might not again see another human for days. Every so often, he’d been lucky enough to stumble upon an old, sun-worn tree, most often plum, with a blackberry bush crowding around the base, from which he could eat as much as he could manage, but there were only a few plums remaining in his bags, and not enough to get him through the next day.

Sundown had painted the sky when he spotted a farmhouse in the distance, silhouetted against the setting sun. It was, however, well into night before Castiel managed to reach it. There were no candles lit, no lamps burning oil when he happened upon the house, but he knocked all the same. Several minutes passed by, and he knocked again, calling out to anyone who might be inside.

No one answered.

As much as it went against what Castiel believed to be right, his hungry belly and aching backside trumped all else that he felt. With a grunt, he forced the door open. The inside of the house was dark, yes, but a few moments of groping blindly around the place rewarded him with a fat candle and a few matches. As he struck a match and the flame sparked to life at the end of his fingers, Castiel used a moment to take stock of all that was around him. It was a small, single-roomed hut, with walls made of wood and the floor of dirt. There was a straw-filled mattress in one corner, a table in another, and a fireplace in yet a third.

And it is an almost physical pain with which Castiel struggled as he began to pilfer things from the room. He took a few matches, making sure to leave plenty behind, and sliced with his bone-handled dagger a hunk of cheese from its wheel. He procured a few apples and a handful of plums from a barrel near the door, as well as a few stips of dried meat. He never even imagined to take anything there wasn’t already plenty of, and made certain to leave enough coin on the table to replace what he took and then some.

He pulled the saddle off of his horse in the small, somewhat ramshackled building that he assumed was once a barn. He carefully took a few moments to brush the sweat from the back of his mount, pumping a few buckets of water for the poor beast, then promptly left the animal tied to one of the posts inside.

Though Castiel wished he had a better idea - fatigue had made his body a home, and his limbs ached as much as his skin from the days of travel - he once more entered the house. He didn’t, however, bother with the candle, instead simply groping around until he felt the mattress and the mess of blankets atop of it. He wasted no time crawling into the welcoming cocoon, and hardly the span of a few heartbeats passed before he fell into slumber’s embrace.

It was well into the day before he woke, and he scrambled to re-saddle his horse and continue on his journey. Before he left the hovel one last time, however, Castiel added another coin to the pile he’s left on the table. He thought, vaguely, that it might be good manners to also leave a note, but he decided against it - whoever owned the house might lack the skill to read. And, well, given who might be on his trail, the idea of leaving viable proof that he’d been somewhere was too much of a risk.

Castiel shuddered as he readied his horse, his mind elsewhere. The punishment Michael would inflict upon him if he were caught caused the hair on the back of Castiel’s neck to stand. He’d known his brother to be a fair man, yes, but Michael’s anger and embarrassment would likely be at a level the young king had not previously before endured. And Castiel had earned the anger of not one but two kings; he knew too few stories of the newly crowned man who tamed the Southern Forests to be able to predict how he might react. Castiel mused that it was in his best interest to keep himself from finding out.

Such ideas stuck to the back of his mind like the way sweat stuck to the back of his neck as the sun beat down, mercilessly, upon him. Though he’d refilled his waterskin before he’d left the small domicile, he knew that he’d have to find another source of water soon else he might become too dehydrated. He was someone only just struggling to understand what kind of man he was; it would do little good to die before he found out.

By late afternoon, his horse having kept up a decent pace, he came across a smattering of small houses. It was likely the closest thing to a city as it came so far into the plains, so Castiel was thankful for it all the same. Though it was a small community, there were children playing in the streets and several peddlers littering the walk.

Suffice to say, Castiel drew attention to himself the moment he was spotted.

He dismounted and pulled his horse by the reins through the small village. People stood on their doorsteps to catch a glimpse of the newcomer, several residents shooting furtive glances out of the glassless windows of their homes.

Halfway through the town, several older-looking men neared him. One of them, his back bent from years of farm-work, stepped forward and offered his hand. Castiel accepted the handshake, offering the old man a kind smile in return.

“You just missed them. They just came through last night.”

The cold grip of panic nearly squeezed the life out of him, but Castiel was well used to keeping face in front of others. He drew in a deep breath, and prepared himself to simply bullshit his way out of the situation.

“Who was at the forefront?” He questioned, making sure to look intense, interested.

The old man chewed his lip. “I don’t think he gave us a name, but by the looks of him he was some kind of high noble of sorts. It was him, and two others; they passed through here just last night.”

“What color were their banners?”

“Green, sir, though one of them wore our own blue.”

Castiel nodded. Just as he thought; the house color for the king of the Southern Forests was green, and that of his own were blue. Still, he kept face. “Just three of them, then?”

The old man nodded. “Said they were after a runaway, a prince.”

Ah, so that much had been said already, had it? Castiel made a thoughtful sound, as if he were weighing his words. “Did they say which direction they were headed?”

“They’d come come from the capital, and said that their small garrison would be headed north for a time, as well that more men would be traveling to and through our village here.”

Castiel nodded, as if the information he’d been given had matched that of his own. Thinking quickly was a skill honed in the heat of debates in the company of scholars, and despite his lack of skill with a knife, Castiel’s tongue was as sharp as any sword. “You’ve done well to help me here, sir. I will make sure that my captain hears that you’ve done your duty to your crown.”

Before Castiel could move to turn toward the north, however, the wrinkly old man laid a hand on his wrist, momentarily drawing him back. “Is it true, though? Is it true that the youngest prince has fled?”

His mouth momently went dry, but Castiel quickly covered his near fumble with a deep sigh. He licked his lips, attempting to look somewhat forlorn. “I am not at liberty to go into much detail, I’m afraid.”

The old man nodded his head in understanding, his face grim.

The risk was great, but Castiel worried that another opportunity might not present itself upon the open road ahead of him. “Please, I can trade coin for any supplies you have in surplus. The forefront of those out on patrol didn’t have much time to gather supplies, and I can bring whatever you can spare to my fellow soldiers.”

One of the young men who had gathered near Castiel took a step forward. “The few that ran ahead of you said those coming through the village might require supplies. They’ve left us with coin and in exchange you’re welcome to take all that you need from us.”

Castiel took a moment to thank whatever deity that had taken a moment to smile down upon him. In less than ten minutes, he’d been outfitted with proper sleeping utilities, including a fabric tent and a warmer set of blankets, another, larger waterskin, and a sack full of various dried fruit, meats, and cheeses. He graciously thanked the people of the small village, imagining that nearly every resident had come outside of their homes to gape at the stranger from the capital.

“When my men journey through your village, please tell them to keep their northward facing. They shouldn’t be too far behind me.” Though he found lies distasteful, Castiel felt he had little other choice.

The people waved their goodbyes, many of them happy to help the crown in any way they could. Though Castiel knew not the name of the village, he was aware they grew the wheat the capital city exported to the other nations, and as such, despite their diminutive size, made them important to the empire. Castiel, when he helped Michael with appropriating finances across the map, had always made sure that the small gathering of farmers was paid well for their services, and based on the many smiling faces that saw him out of the village, he felt he’d done right by them, even if not a soul among them was aware.

Regardless of the pride he felt for his people, Castiel knew that he hadn’t much time to waste. Besides, despite only being days since he left, the entire ordeal felt lifetimes ago. It had been little but Castiel alone with his thoughts for the journey, and, now that he knew those tracking him would be heading northward, he felt, for once, that he might actually have the upper hand. He waved as he mounted his horse and began away from the village.

Once the village was lost over the rolling hillside, however, Castiel turned sharply west, making sure to keep well out of sight of the village. If those on his tail realized that he’d stopped through the village hardly hours after those sent to track him had, he needed to make haste. And, if no one realized that it was actually the youngest prince who’d traipsed through town a scant few hours after those in pursuit, all the better.

To continue west, however, would be too obvious, or at least it seemed such to Castiel. When the sun neared the horizon ahead of him, the small village lost in the distance, the young prince turned his horse south.

Castiel knew it was unfair to keep the animal at such a pace, but the fear welling up inside of him made him sleepless, and as a result, he kept his horse walking well into the night. He’d long ago abandoned any notion of following the main roads, and kept, instead, to the vast expanse of plains before him. Despite walking in the dark, he knew there were few things his horse might on, and so, while he kept the creature in motion, he made sure it was a slower, more steadied pace.

The stars lit the sky above him, swirling and immense. When he did stop for the night, he gave what water he could spare to his mount, but didn’t bother to set up his newly acquired tent. Castiel worried that, in the darkness, he might lose a part of the tent, so he settled for simply bundling up as tightly as he could, resting his head on his rucksack.

Castiel realized for the first time that he was truly alone. It was a daunting feeling, both terrifying and invigorating. He no longer would have to strive to abide by silly rules and customs, a master of himself and no other man.

A part of him ached for his old life. Books and tomes, entire libraries at his disposal. A soft bed, a warm meal; Castiel had come to take much for granted.

But, lying under the stars put many things in perspective for him. He could be the man other people wanted him to be, or he could find his own definition of what he was, make his own mark on the world. If anything was for certain, Castiel came to understand that -nothing- was for certain. When his supplies ran out, he didn’t know where his next meal would come from. As summer would dwindle and the cold grip of winter would creep across the land, Castiel had no idea how he’d ensure that he wouldn’t freeze to death.

And, somehow, none of it mattered.

As if by instinct, Castiel reached for the ring around his finger. The tarnished silver under the tips of his fingers always helped to calm him, a nervous habit picked up from years of playing, absent-mindedly, with the trinket. But, the moment Castiel’s fingers brushed across the cool metal around his finger, his heart sunk.

The king had pulled the silver ring from his finger - the one that, once upon a time, had been gifted to him by the one other being that had held his heart - and had replaced it with one of his own, one of gold.

Suddenly angry, Castiel sat up in the darkness, wrenching the foreign band free from his finger. He pulled his hand back, readying to throw the ring into the night, letting it fall, lost forever, to the grasses of the prairie, but stopped abruptly. His body convulsed once, twice, and soon, great, fat tears were falling from his face. He clasped the ring tingly in his grasp, but lowered his hand. He couldn’t throw it, no matter how much he wished to. The day of his wedding he’d been gifted the ring, at the same time having been gifted with the sweetest words that had ever been meant for him; how could Castiel come to hate such reverence?

He slipped the ring into the pocket of his trousers, unsure of what else to do with it. It didn’t feel right, wearing it; the ring finger of his left hand had always been where Dean’s gifted trinket had come to rest. Wearing the ring given to him by the king didn’t feel right.

The youngest prince of the Eastern Plains cried himself to sleep that night, memories of a promise given long ago coming to rise in his heart and mind, making him ache. They were bitter-sweet memories, of a childhood nearly long forgotten, spent in the company of the only other person to know Castiel not as a prince but as himself.

Castiel had promised to come when Dean called. He remembered their traded words, their hurried kisses, the feeling of their hands slotted palm against palm.

But Dean had never come to call upon him. In fact, Castiel recalled, painfully, that the day he’d been gifted his ring was the last time he shared company with Dean Winchester, son of a blacksmith and his dearest friend.

Castiel couldn’t place when his memories faded into dreams, but, regardless, his night was filled with the warm, freckled face of Dean. They sat by the streamside for a time, then shared a meal in the gardens of the palace, the both of them smiling and laughing. Then, suddenly, it was nightfall around them, each of them donning a mask for the solstice. But something was off. Castiel knew he was linked by the hand to Dean, but when he looked up, the person before him was not his childhood love but the king of the Southern Forests, horned mask pressed to his face.

It was with a great start that Castiel awoke, his body drenched in cold sweat. The sun was well into it’s journey into the sky, and Castiel knew that the sooner he packed up his things and was on his way, the better he would feel. As he had the day before, he continued his journey south.

Still, it was several days worth of riding ahead him, and Castiel knew that every second counted. He was sure he was going to be the death of his poor horse, but the stalwart animal trudged on, uninterrupted in pace and tenacity. Castiel didn’t think he knew the name of the particular beast he rode upon, so he re-gifted the animal one that suited him; Greatheart.

It was atop Greatheart that, a week and a half later, Castiel came upon the city of Treescend. It was the newest city to rise on the Greater Continent, but it was far from the smallest. With the conquest of the Southern Forests, the king had risen a fortress, not for himself but for his people. Newcomers of all creeds and credentials were welcome to the city, and, to put it bluntly, Castiel was convinced he’d never seen such a beautiful establishment. Every street was filled with smiling people, the air thick with the smell of newly cut wood. 

The city itself was beautiful, sprawling out before him in a crescent shape, the ends of which nearly came together at their points to form a circle. As he entered the city, he passed by a towering wooden arch, and he marveled at how the city had no true gate that could be lowered to keep people from leaving or entering. It truly was a city that shunned no man.

He pulled his mount by the reins after he dismounted, gaping with open awe at the bustling city. Street-carts and shops alike lined the streets around him, and buildings that were as tall as four stories spread out around him. Most of the houses of the Eastern Plains were made of stone or mud-brick, with thatched roofs and doors. Those that could afford it made their homes from sturdier material, but wood was not a cheap commodity in the land in which Castiel grew up, as the flat, mostly-arid hillsides didn’t allow trees to grow well. Farming wheat and the like was hard enough; growing food was more important than growing trees, and without really even meaning to, the people of the plains became deft at raising crops and grazing animals.

Caught off guard, what with his eyes to the sky and the buildings surrounding him, Castiel nearly fell to the ground when something collided with him. He somehow managed to keep from falling over. “I’m terribly sorry,” he began, even before he’d made eye contact with who he’d bumped into.

A young boy stood before him, looking hardly older than perhaps eight or nine, with a sour look upon his featured. “Might do well to look where you’re going, mister. Nearly trampled me.”

Castiel scrubbed at the back of his head. “Yes, sorry. I was admiring the buildings. You’re not hurt, are you?”

The young man gave Castiel a hard, unreadable look. Then, with a raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “Suppose I’m fine.”

Castiel smiled. “Good. Again, sorry.” He nodded to the boy, then began, once more, into the city. He was more careful to watch his footing as he wandered deeper into the city, taking care to step around any potential obstacles.

After hours of walking, his feet dragging heavily under him, Castiel decided to turn in for the night. he had enough coin on him to afford a stay at one of the many inns that dotted the city, and he was sure that a little rest would do wonders for his horse as well.

When he found an inn that seemed somewhat reputable, he tied his horse to the post outside, and pushed open the doors. Immediately, the smell of fresh-baked bread filled his senses. Even with the stink of stale beer beneath it, the air was pleasant.

The barkeep nodded as Castiel approached the counter. “What’ll it be, sir?”

Castiel gave himself a moment to contemplate. He wasn’t well aware of the types of food normally offered at such establishments - when the occasion called for him to travel, Castiel’s room and board was always taken care of my someone in his garrison. Finally, he merely offered the man a shrug. “Whatever is in the soup pot, and half of a loaf.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Water will be fine.”

The barkeep nodded, then disappeared past the swinging doors and into the kitchen.

Castiel took up a stool at the bar, realizing only when he got off of his feet how tired he truly was. His legs were sore from both riding and walking, and while the seat under him wasn’t cushioned, it was a welcome relief if only for the fact that it was a different way from which he’d been seated upon his horse for the last several days.

Hardly a few minutes had passed before the barkeep returned, placing a heaping bowl of stew in front of Castiel, along side a torn piece of bread loaf, and a tall mug of water.

“What brings you to Treescend, brother?” The barkeep tried to keep up polite conversation.

Castiel swallowed his bite of stew, very pleased with the flavoring and hardiness of it. “Just passing through,” he offered.

“So say most men, these days.”

“Oh?”

The barkeep shrugged, but there was a smile on his face. “Now that the king has tamed the forests around us, so does every man think he might. Sure, if you stick to the roads there’s not much danger in it, but the forests ‘roud here grow so dense, and are so thick with trees overhead, that if you don’t know exactly where it is you’re going, you’re likely to get lost.”

“Can’t see the sun or stars?”

“Neither. So, unless you make a habit of climbing trees three times the size of houses around here, I’d suggest sticking to the trails.”

Castiel nodded, dipping his bread into his bowl of stew. Truth be told, he originally had no intention of sticking to the roads as he passed through the forests. Something in the barkeep’s voice, however, caused Castiel to think better of the situation. Many years had passed since he was a younger boy, pulled into the hunt at the behest of his brothers who seemed to take great joy it. While Castiel never really enjoyed the hunting, neither did he despite it, either; it was simply an activity that was expected of a young royal. If he expected to keep himself alive, however, the threat of starvation was a good incentive for him to practice once more. He’d find someone in the city to purchase a bow from. He wasn’t a deft shot with an arrow, but he was well enough to feel that it would keep him from going hungry.

When he finally finished with his food, he signaled the barkeep once more. “How much do I owe you, sir?”

“For a meal it’s seven copper pennies.”

Castiel nodded, standing up to reach to his belt. When his hand grasped nothing but leather, the young prince felt suddenly as though his dinner would quickly make another appearance.

“Let me guess,” the barkeep sighed. “You were picked.”

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “It would seem so.”

“I’d think someone with such fancy clothes would know better than to keep his purse on a string in a big city like this.”

Feeling the part of the fool, Castiel bit his lip. “I don’t have much to my name, but there are a few things in my saddlebag that I can perhaps trade.”

The barkeep shook his head. “Don’t want for much in this place. Tell you what - since you don’t look to have lost your wallet on purpose, and you actually seem sorry about it, I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll give you a place to sleep for the night, and another meal come morning, and in exchange you clean my stables for me.”

Castiel’s heart fluttered. The kindness of strangers never ceased to amaze him. “Absolutely. Thank you, sir.”

The man instructed Castiel to bring his horse around to the back of the building, and the barkeep stood waiting for him when he arrived. The young prince listened intently as the kind barkeep instructed him through the set of tasks that were to be completely for his debt to be forgotten, and Castiel started upon his chores the moment he was left alone. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, so that they might stay clean, and began to shovel the dirty straw out of the empty stalls. He laid down a fresh layer, and when he finished he then took great care to brush and feed each of the horses in the stalls.

The barkeep whistled from the door. “For someone in such a soft look about him, you sure made quick work of this place.”

“I owe you a debt; doing my best is the least I can offer in thanks.”

The barkeep held out his hand. “I’m Benny.”

Castiel told himself to lie, and quickly. “Emanuel.”

“You staying in town long, Emanuel?”

Castiel shrugged. “I don’t particularly have a destination set; I’m just wandering the land, really. I suppose I could. Why?”

That piqued Benny’s curiosity, or at least Castiel read as much on the man’s face. “Not many people can travel just for the hell of it, and with such little in their coin-purse.”

“My family and I had a falling out. I am not particularly welcome home after what transpired, and so I am simply traveling wherever the path cares to take me.” Castiel was particularly proud of such a lie, mostly due to the fact that it really wasn’t a lie at all. It was as close to the truth as he would dare, but still vague enough that it would raise no suspicion. Everyone has family troubles at one point or another.

“Overbearing father?”

“Elder brother. He followed in my father’s foot steps, and expected me to roll over like a dog and accept a fate I had no say in.”

Benny shook his head, taking a moment to scratch at his beard. “If family’s good for one thing, it’s pissing each other off.”

Castiel nodded. “I love my brother, but it doesn’t sit well with me to be used in such a way.”

This time Benny nodded, reaching out a hand to clap Castiel gently on his shoulder. “Listen, I’m a little short staffed at the moment. If you’ve got nowhere to be, what say you lodge up here at the inn and give me a hand.”

For a moment, Castiel was suspicious of the man. But, Benny thus far had done nothing to earn distrust in any way. Quite the opposite, really - Castiel could have simply run away the moment Benny had turned his back in the stables, and here the man was offering room and board.

“I can pay a wage, too. Won’t be great, but it’ll be enough to help you get by until it’s time for you to leave town.”

Castiel beamed, holding out his hand. “Thank you.”

Benny smiled as well. “Welcome aboard, Emanuel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings for this chapter: panic attacks
> 
> **Art for this chapter provided by the amazing[madches](http://madches.tumblr.com/)**


	3. Chapter Three (Castiel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers will be listed at the bottom of each chapter.

A month had come and gone, and Castiel was finding out quickly the type of man he was becoming. He pulled his own weight and then some, determined not to let Benny, and the kindness he offered, down. He ran errands, he cleaned and learned to cook, and he even made friends. Actual friends - people who were interested in him for who he was, not what ties he had. He went to bed with a full stomach and a roof over his head, not to mention aching muscles. But soon his chores no longer caused his arms and legs to burn at the end of the night. Benny even had him hunting small game on the outskirts of the forest for their dinner specials.

Castiel was a free man, and he loved it.

But he shouldn’t have been so naive; it was only a matter of time before his perfect little escape came crumbling down.

“The king is heading back to town,” Benny mentioned one night as they cleaned the kitchen.

“Oh?” Castiel felt his heart drop into his stomach, but he refused to let his voice waver. “They finally giving up on the search for the missing prince from the Eastern Pains, then?”

Benny shrugged. “Poor bastard’s likely dead, but I don’t think even that would stop the king.”

Castiel nearly choked on his breath. He recovered by masking the sound with a cough. “Why do you say that?”

Drying his hands on his bar rag, Castiel watched as Benny’s face took on a grim look. “It’s not his nature to give up easy, that one.”

Making a noise of affirmation, Castiel continued his cleaning. For the remainder of the night, he tried to make himself as small as possible. He worried that if the king was coming back, then the search was turning toward the south after all. Perhaps staying under the king’s nose, right in his own royal city, wasn’t as smart of a plan as Castiel had initially hoped. Sure, Treescend was large, but there were only so many people held in by it’s walls; sooner or later, Castiel might be found out.

It was that night that he decided he’d begin preparations to leave. He didn’t bother asking Benny how long until the king would be back. In fact, no matter how much Castiel appreciated Benny’s kindness and the bond or friendship that had quickly developed between them, Castiel had to first think of himself. It wasn’t hard to guess what might happen if the king were to find Castiel hiding in his own city.

It was decided that he’d leave in the night, three days hence. It was a tiring last few days, but Castiel tried to make the best of it. He snuck an extra loaf of bread to his room one morning, wrapping it in the extra shirt he managed to buy himself a few weeks back. Into his pockets went a few strips of dried meat, taking what he felt was his fair share - after all, he’d been the one who’d shot the pheasant in the first place. The bow he used when he went out to hunt was on the forefront of Castiel’s mind as well. He felt guilty knowing that he’d have to steal the weapon from Benny, but he could see no other choice.

On the day before he had originally set out to leave, fate decided it had other plans.

Castiel’s plan had been simple; he’d wake before Benny and the rest of the residents of the inn and take the bow from it’s hanging place in the stables. It wasn’t unusual for him to set out for a hunt so early in the morning, after all. By nightfall he’d be long gone, and Benny wouldn’t take to worrying until Castiel had been out for more than a few nights.

So, when Castiel woke one morning, before even the sun rose, suffice to say that he was more than a little surprised when he opened the door to his bedroom and noticed the soft glow coming from the main dining hall, indicating that it was in use. On silent feet he crept through the hall, toward where the stairs began. Gathering up his courage, he slowly looked around the corner and down into the dining area.

Castiel froze. His heart leapt into his throat and then plummeted to his feet.

Benny was seated at one of the tables below, and next to him was none other than the king. Both had a tankard in hand, and a grim look on their faces.

“I’m telling you, Benny, there’s no way he’s dead. He just can’t be.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, brother. Wish I could help.”

The king shook his head. “It’s enough just listening to me bitch about it. We set out again as soon as we can, likely starting our sweep in the east first. I have to find him. I -have- to.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do for you, brother, you let me know. I owe you my life.”

“Thanks. It’s times like this I wish you would have taken up my offer to be on the counsel.”

Benny’s laugh was deep, throaty. “I owe you my life, but that doesn’t mean it’s yours to bore to death.”

“Oh, come on - the meetings aren’t that bad.”

A silence stretched between them, then each of them burst into laughter, as if it were some kind of old joke shared between good friends. Castiel took the momentary increase in noise to sneak back down the hall and into his room. He was relieved to see that Benny apparently hadn’t recognized him as the runaway prince his king was speaking of, but he also knew that he was short on time.

With all the care he could muster, Castiel flipped up the latched that kept the shutters on his window closed, pressing the wooden pieces carefully against the side of the building so that they’d make no noise. Keeping his footsteps light and his breath lighter, he dressed, crammed all of his belongings into his pack, and, carefully, eased his feet upon the sil of the window. He took a brief moment to breathe, to gather what calmness he could, then fell from the second floor. His landing was a bit stiff, making his knees ache momentarily in protest, but nothing was broken and he’d made little noise. 

Castiel took the bow from it’s hanging perch in the barn, and quickly saddled and geared his horse. Wishing the beast’s shoes weren’t made of iron, Castiel cursed himself for all of the noise his mount was making as they began down the cobblestone streets. Regardless, neither Benny nor the king came after him.

For a brief moment, Castiel let himself breathe. He wasn’t out of danger, not yet, but he’d made his escape that much easier. The king had been adamant about finding him, which strengthened Castiel’s resolve to flee even more.

He left the town even before the sun rose, and those few guards stationed at the gates bowed their heads and touched the brims of their helmets, letting Castiel know that they’d seen him. Normally, the gesture was welcomed - he even knew several of the guards by name, and what their favorite drink was - but on that particular morning, he had to force himself to smile in return. They’d come accustomed to his leaving in the early mornings to hunt outside of the city, so perhaps luck was on his side if only for a moment; the guards knew him as Emanuel and the stories Castiel had spun to hide his true identity weren’t cause to raise suspicion. If the king asked his men at the city’s gates if they’d seen a prince, Castiel felt secure in the thought that none, if any at all, would recognize him; they hadn’t seen a prince, for Castiel hadn’t presented himself like one. The guards only saw Emanuel, the young barkeep Benny had hired, who, for all they knew, came from a small but somewhat wealthy family from the Northern Ports, who’d left home when he realized that he did not want to follow in his family’s footsteps.

Once out of the city, Castiel turned toward the west, toward where he normally would take to hunting small game for the bar. He’d overheard the king say that he’d start his search east of Treescend, and hoped that a day and a half would give him enough of a head start.

Castiel chided himself as he rode with the rising sun at his back. How could he had been so naive to think that he might run and hide from a king right under his very nose, in the city he’d raised from nothing. Anxiety pinched him by the back of Castiel’s neck, and it was with much strength that he kept himself from crying. And how could he not let the tears fall? He’d made friends, had found himself a temporary home. He was welcomed amongst those in the bar not because of his title or breeding, but instead because of who he was. No one asked him to sit in on contract negotiations, or oversee the drawing of new trade agreements. No one told him what he must wear, how he must speak, or what mannerisms he should adopt or abandon. No one bowed when he entered a room, cared what type of literature he read, or what foods he ate.

And, once he’d tasted freedom, Castiel knew he’d rather die than be forced back into his old life.

Of course he missed the comfort of his own bed, and the quality of his old clothing. He missed the few friends he’d made on the castle staff who spoke to him a little less formally. Most of all, he missed his family. But, despite everything, Castiel regretted only one thing; that he hadn’t taken charge of his own life sooner.

There is only so much of life a man may live for the sake of someone else.

Castiel trudged on. His mind was heavy, and the feeling about his heart even more so, but he was resolved not to falter a single step.

As the day wore on, the trail he followed on the outskirts of the forest eventually curved into it. Taking care to remember what he’d been warned of the place, Castiel made sure to keep the trail under his feet. When he stopped to make camp for the night, he made sure to keep the trail within his sight. Even though it wasn’t fully nightfall, the forest was dark. Every so often, Castiel would look up and catch a tiny glimpse of the sky. As much as he thought the forest beautiful, he was, after all, from the Eastern Plains, and missed being able to simply look up and see the great blanket of stars that covered the heavens. He knew what constellations to look for given the time of the year, but, what with the thick foliage above and around him, he could see none.

Morning came swiftly. Castiel woke with a great hunger in his belly, and he knew that going to bed with a full stomach for the last month straight and spoiled him. His boots were made of soft leather, the moss beneath his feet quieting his steps even more, and it wasn’t long at all before Castiel had caught several rabbits. He built a great fire, then took the time to skin and gut the animals. It wasn’t a job he particularly enjoyed, but Castiel wasn’t sure when next he’d been given the time to hunt. He took care to smoke the and salt the meat, wrapping it up with some extra cloth rags he’d thought to bring with him.

He snacked as he rode that day, keeping the horse at a steady pace. Castiel felt somewhat bad for the poor beast under him; just as the prince had, so did his mount become accustomed to sleeping long hours with a fully belly.

Castiel was weighing the decision of whether or not to stop for the night when he came upon the only other souls he’d seen during his entire journey into the forest. As the trail twisted, he came around a great mass of mossy boulders and face to face with what looked like a troupe of traveling performers. Many heads turned to him as his horse made a noise of surprise.

A tall, middle aged-looking man began toward him. “Greeting, stranger,” he offer, bowing in respect.

“Hello yourself,” Castiel offered back, bowing his head in return. “I haven’t seen a single soul other than than the animals that call his forest their home. And yet there’s an entire troupe of you traveling through.”

The man beamed. “Haven’t you heard? There is another great city being built in these woods, where the forest meets the sea further south. It’s a long journey, but hundreds and hundreds of men came through here hardly a few months ago, from Treescend and beyond.”

Castiel hadn’t actually heard, which, for a man normally so invested in the going ons of the other kingdoms, was quite surprising. “The king is raising a port city, then?”

The stranger nodded. “He’s offered living wage to any man who helps build the city from nothing.”

To Castiel, it was a bold move. The land thought untamable by many had been beaten down by a single man, and it was well known to any others how precious lumber was to the people of the neighboring kingdoms. It was likely how the newly-crowned king had amassed such wealth in such a short time. To Castiel, the building of a port city would fall well into the realm of obvious intention; it was far faster to export lumber on ships than by land.

It was then that Castiel decided his next move. He’d follow the road to the new port city, buy passage on a ship, and flee to the sprawling cities of the Western Wilds.

“I am surprised that you’ve been traveling this trail behind us and yet were unaware of where the path might lead you. You truly knew nothing of the city being built?”

Lie, Castiel thought. Lie quickly. The story he told at the bar was the first that came to mind, and it would be easier to remember and keep straight. “I’m from a trading family that makes their home in the Northern Ports. I’m afraid to say that my family and I had a bit of a falling out, and so I made my way south to see where the road might take me.”

“Ah, venturing for new ideas are you?”

Castiel forced a smile and shrugged. “Would that I could. Merely traveling for the sake of the scenery is not an easy option for some.”

That earned quite a beaming grin from the performer. “You speak to a man who makes a dusty trail his home.”

When Castiel smiled, it wasn’t quite faked. “Then I see I’m in good company.”

“What do they call you, sir?”

“Emanuel.”

“I am the patriarch of this fine den of lost souls, and you are welcome to share camp with us this night if you so wish.”

It was a welcomed reprieve, spending time in the company of others. He learned their faces and their names, heard the stories of their struggles and triumphs, and was offered a warm blanket by the fire with the rest of them. Come morning, Castiel took down several rabbits with his bow for them, as thanks for time well spent.

When they asked if Castiel would like to keep in their company until they reached the rising city to the south, he meant to say no. He meant to, but so kind were those who surrounded him, so welcoming and gentle, that, despite only being in their company for a single day, Castiel felt something that he hadn’t realized he’d lost; the want of a place to call home. Not a house or a castle; no, not a place at all. A state of being - contented. The last time he’d felt so wanted, he was but a boy, greedily taking affection offered from the one other being he’d ever shared his heart with.

Even so, he should have said no. He knew he should of. But the pleading eyes of the little children around him and the hopeful smiles of their parents tugged at his heartstrings.

And so he stayed.

Three nights later, he began to help them write a play. When it was discovered that he could read and write far better than anyone else in the troupe, they’d set him the task of scribe. He wrote while he rode, and those without a horse gathered around him to help with what they could for the play. While Castiel had never been all too interested in the dramatics of the theater, he found it fun to be on the composing side for a change.

For all the writing he did for the play, Castiel also offered up an equal amount of his own experiences. Not that any of those in the troupe would recognize it as such, of course. But they wanted a sweet play of lost and recovered love. And while Castiel’s own story didn’t necessarily have a happy ending in the ways most might expect, it was enough to help him craft the basis of a sweet love story. Two lovers, separated by class and social status, promise one another with an exchange of rings that they will, one day, be reunited. One, the son of a blacksmith, and the other a princess - it all hit Castiel close enough to home that, when he watched the play be rehearsed for the first time, it nearly brought a tear to his eyes.

He wished with all of his heart that he had been able to keep the ring Dean had given to him all those years ago. He missed the feel of it, the weight of it on his fingers, the smooth shine he’d worn into it after years of stroking it.

But luck, for Castiel, had never been welcoming, unless it was, of course, the bad sort.

A group of three soldiers, all bearing the green banner of their king, rounded ahead of them on the trail. For a brief moment in time, Castiel thought he might panic. But sense overcame momentary fear; were he to run, the guards would surely give chase.

“What can our humble troupe of performers do for you men of the king?”

“The king continues his search for his missing betrothed. We ask all citizens within the realm to help us locate the lost prince and return him to his home kingdom. A reward has been posted for his safe recovery.”

Castiel’s entire body clenched. With the new offer of a reward for his head, how much longer did he think he’d be able to out run, to outsmart, the king? Dread welled up in his body, and he hated himself for so easily throwing his trust into others. That had always been his problem; he had too much heart.

Much to his absolute surprise, however, the patriarch of the troupe bowed respectfully. “I wish we could offer you good news, gentlemen, but I’m afraid we don’t have a lost prince hidden amongst our ranks.”

One of the women behind him laughed. “As if a prince might find our motley crew worthy of his company.” Several others behind her laughed at the remark.

“Just as well, we appreciate your time. Traveling through to see the new ports be built, then, are you?”

“Thought we might liven their moods with the theater,” someone to Castiel’s right remarked.

The soldier nodded, brusquely. “Well, I won’t keep you - you’re hardly half a days ride from town.”

The patriarch bowed again, then moved to the side of the trail so that the soldiers could continue on their journey.

Castiel’s palms were drenched with sweat as the soldiers neared him, but none of the three men looked at him for more than a second as they rode by. It was only after the troupe began to move once more that Castiel realized he’d been holding his breath. His heart hammered away, echoing loudly in his ears, and he was terrified that those around him might be able to hear it.

The patriarch turned to walk backwards, like a shepherd looking over his flock. When their eyes met, the man offered Castiel a wink.

The wind rushed out of Castiel’s lungs as though he’d been punched squarely in the chest. He took a moment to regain his bearings, then gently ushered his horse onward.

Whatever reason the troupe had for keeping Castiel’s secret, the prince was at a loss for words over the mere idea.

Growing up in the castle, he’d always had local, dedicated men of the theater to put on performances for he and his family. Traveling caravans, performers and musicians who answered the beckon call of the open road, had never been allowed passed the castle gates; they’d been welcomed into the city, but had been kept at arm’s length. He couldn’t recall which of his brothers had distrusted the roaming performers so, but Castiel hadn’t previously been around such a caste of people long enough to formulate an opinion about them. Perhaps not all troupes were the same, as not all houses in a city observe the same customs, the same quirks, but Castiel felt warmth spearing in his chest for those he traveled with.

He was happy to have found good people in the world.

The soldier had been right - hardly half a day later, the forest gave way to pasture that angled at a gentle slope toward the sea. Even so far away, the echoes of hammers could be easily heard, high and sharp. Shipyards were being built and expanded in all directions, and it was with great reverence that Castiel marveled at such a sight. Who would have thought a newly-crowned king, hardly a year into his rule, was capable of creating such growth in his land?

Castiel parted ways with the troupe, amidst many tears. They thanked him for his effort in creating their newest play, and promised to dedicate each performance to their blue-eyed angel of the pen.

Once again alone and on his own, Castiel made his way through the newborn city. Dockmasters directed their workers on the right placement of their planks, praising when necessary and cursing when not. Nearly every man he passed by in the streets had a hammer slung in their work pants, their hands and faces worn from days in the hot sun.

It was with a light heart that Castiel dismounted from his horse and began toward the docks. Small fishing boats already crowded what docks had been finished, and many women and children, likely the families of those men who came to work, haggled with the fishmongers.

A strange boat, the likes of which Castiel was not familiar with, had dropped anchor at the end of one of the docks. A somewhat short man leaned against one of the dock poles, short-trimmed beard adorning his face. Castiel was surprised to see a man who looked quite so richly dressed as the stranger in a place so homely and simple as a dock.

“Something catch your eye?” The man asked, raising an eyebrow at Castiel. His accent was odd, foreign.

“Your boat looks a little out of place; it’s obvious you don’t run a fishing barge, and the craft looks too small to pull or transport lumber.”

The man gave Castiel a one-over, an eyebrow raised curiously. “I deal with transporting, for lack of a better word, livestock.”

Castiel wasn’t sure he quite understood the man’s meaning, but he nodded in affirmation anyway. “Where is she headed next?”

The stranger shrugged. “Whatever ports catch my fancy. You got somewhere you need to be?”

“I was looking to gain passage to the capital city of the Northern Ports.”

The man barked a laugh. “And you came all the way south to do it?”

Castiel shrugged. “Beats walking. I’ve seen all I care to of the forests here in the south. I thought perhaps I’d find work here, but it seems that this place is more than filled with capable men.”

After a moment of silence, the man took a step forward. “Crowley’s the name, and if you’re looking for transportation, then I’m sure we could come to an agreement. How long are you planning on staying here in town?”

Castiel shrugged. “Long enough to find passage; the sooner the better, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”

Crowley gave him another thoughtful look. “Tell you what. You help some of my men with a job outside of town for the next few days, and I’ll see to it that you get where you’re going.”

Suspicion began to gather under his skin. Castiel rose an eyebrow. How likely was it that he’d find such kindness in such a short span of time? First Benny, then the theater troupe. “What do you need my help with?”

“There’s some livestock in the area that I’m looking to move. It’s outside of the city, and the entire ordeal is likely to get a little rough. I prefer to not get my hands dirty, and instead let my men prove their strength. It seems, though, that I’m a little short-handed at the moment; some of my previous crew found work here in the docks, and are looking to stay.”

“What of my horse?”

Crowley shrugged. “Better off selling it; it’d be too expensive to keep it fed for such a long journey.”

“I think we have ourselves a deal, then.” Castiel offered his hand, and Crowley shook it.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

Castiel almost faltered. “Emanuel.”

“Good to meet you then, Emanuel. My boys’ll be waiting for you at the East Gate at sunset tonight.”

They parted ways, and Castiel spent the next several hours finding a good home for Greatheart. Despite being a castle horse, Greatheart had been nothing but stalwart for the entirety of Castiel’s journey from home. As much as it pained him to part with the creature, he knew that it would do the beast no great favor to be cooped up on a barge for several weeks. Greatheart had served him well, but the man that could spare the coin for him seemed, in Castiel’s eyes, like a nice fellow. Greatheart would pull a cart; the man was a blacksmith, and made his way in the budding city by making and fixing the tools of the dock workers.

Castiel knew that he hadn’t asked for as much as Greatheart was worth, at least in his own eyes. But, he needed to rid himself of the horse before sundown, and conceded to taking a smaller price, instead reassured in that the man who bought him would treat him well.

With his pocket of coin, Castiel set about readying himself for his excursion. He had failed to ask, exactly, what livestock Crowley was looking to round up, but he felt it hardly mattered; those he’d be in the company of would surely guide him in what they needed help with. The man who’d bought Greatheart had no need for a saddle as fine as the one he’d been using, and so Castiel set about selling that next. Once more, he felt he was undersold, but coin in his pocket was better than lugging around a heavy saddle he no longer had a use for.

The sun was nearing the horizon when Castiel finished the last of his tasks. He purchased a larger rucksack to tie on his back, and moved all of the things that he had been carrying in the saddle bags into his new one. He also purchased several pouches of dried fruit and meat, as well as an extra waterskin.

The sun at his back, Castiel started toward the East Gate. He was more than a little surprised to see several children from the theater troupe standing near the gate. They called to him and waved, several of them stealing one last hug from him.

“Where is it you’re going, Emmanuel?” one of them asked.

“I’ve bought passage on a ship in exchange for helping a man move some of his livestock.”

One of the older children gave Castiel an appraising look. “There were a handful of brutish-looking men that passed through the gate a few minutes ago. If that’s who you’re lending aid to, you best sleep with an eye open.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. The outing was already making him uneasy, and the words of the troupe child had only added to the feeling.

But, passage was passage, and the young prince felt he had little other choice. He hugged the children that wrapped their arms around him, then promised to try and see the play he’d help write before he left town.

The first thing that Castiel thought when his eyes met those of the men around Crowley was that the entire ordeal was beyond a bad idea. The men that surrounded the barge-owner cast scrutinizing looks at the prince in disguise, as if they were weighing him and already tossing him aside with little other than a simple once-over.

But, as Castiel neared - no matter how his instincts were screaming for him to turn and run - Crowley looked up and began toward him. “This, gents, is Emmanuel. He’s going to be lending a hand to us for a few days while we gather our stock.”

An older-looking man with a scar across his cheek sneered. “Hardly looks like the type of man to associate with our kind.”

“Now, now, boys,” Crowley chided. “Play nice.”

“So, what is it we’re going after?” To say that Castiel was nervous would be an understatement. Still, he was determined to gain passage on a ship, and if helping some gruff-looking fellows was the cheapest and easiest way, then so be it.

“Some local stock have made the forest outside of the city their home. We’re here to clear the land.”

Despite the fall of the night, Castiel stepped with sure footing; he and every other man in his convoy for the night had been outfitted with a torch. Crowley had light them from his own as he’d seen his men to the edge of the forest, making one thing very clear; he who didn’t carry his full weight would receive nothing in return. Half of the men in the company had long rounds of rope resting over one of their shoulders.

Nearly the entire ordeal was spent in silence. More than once was Castiel chided for having such heavy footfalls, and while he apologized and tried to do better, he wasn’t sure, exactly, how to do such a thing. When the men made camp for the night, none made a fire. Castiel wrapped himself in his blanket and wedged himself against a tree. 

Sleep didn’t come easy, and morning came too soon.

Castiel was roused from his slumber with a foot to his side. He yelped in surprise, and received only a sour look by way of an apology. He shook out and folded his blanket, packing it back into his sack, but not before procuring a few strips of dried meat. Once more, he followed the men further into the forest, the mossy ground quieting even their foot steps.

Mid-day came and went, and by sunset there was a feeling of dread brewing in Castiel’s the likes of which he’d never before endured. It was on par with the feeling he walked up the aisle with, all those weeks ago. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, and as they rounded another mossy hill, one of them men in front of him gestured for the entire company to stop. A few more hand gestures were made, none of which Castiel understood, but he followed the other men and stayed low to the ground as they neared the top of the hill.

Silence stretched through the air, not even the creatures of the forest making a sound. Then, suddenly a single noise rang out, high and jaunty, like a bell - the sound of children laughing - and Castiel realized what, exactly, what happening.

The men in his company were slavers.

It didn’t occur to Castiel that there might have been a course of action smarter than the one he chose. He acted completely on instinct, as purely without thought as the way man breathes. One moment, he was crouched near the mossy forest floor, and in the next he’d shot two of the slavers in the back of the head. They fell to the ground before any of the men could turn around.

“Run! Run!” Castiel screamed as loud as he could, drawing another arrow from his quiver and pulling his elbow back sharply. Those in the camp had heard, and they, too, began screaming. In hardly a matter of seconds, Castiel had the small encampment picking up their young and fleeing into the forest.

The young prince managed to sink another arrow into one of the slaver’s throats, and the man fell in anguish to his knees, choking loudly on his own blood.

The sound of a something cutting through the air whized past Castiel’s ears, and with a shaking breath he realized he’d turned his head just in time to dodge a sharpened blade. Another knife came at him, but he’d already strung his bow with another arrow. The knife grazed his shoulder just as his arrow sunk into the man’s heart.

He called out in surprise, knowing that pain wasn’t far behind. The sensation was kept at bay for the span of a few breaths, the pure adrenaline pumping through Castiel’s veins deadening the sensation. It hit him suddenly, and, at the same time, so did a fist to his gut.

There was a thundering sound and a shout that resonated through the dense trees, and the voice that called out echoed all around. Castiel looked up, his vision clouded with pain, as the clamoring hoofbeats of a horse came into view. The beast hadn’t even stopped before the man atop had jumped from the saddle, his swording ringing as he unsheathed it.

“Let him go.” There was so much authority in the voice that Castiel found himself cringing unintentionally.

A rough hand gathered Castiel’s hair and forced him to kneel. 

“He’s killed four of my men, and let our quarry get away,” came the gruff reply. “Who are you to deny me retribution?” 

The blade of a knife pressed against Castiel’s throat.

“You’re hunting human slaves in the king’s forest. I would think very carefully about whatever falls out of your mouth next, because your life might depend on it.”

“The king’s forest? And who are you, then? His lap dog?” The man in front of Castiel barked a laugh.

Castiel knew who it was, knew who it had to be, knew who it could only be.

“I’m the damn king!”

Once more the forest fell silent. The blade pressed sharply against his throat, Castiel hardly dared to draw a breath. The man in front of him, the one not pressing a knife into his flesh, stood halfway between where the prince stood captive and where the king was poised like an animal, ready to attack.

Even with all that had happened, Castiel couldn’t let harm befall an innocent man. He moved next without thought for his own safety, instead thinking only to protect the king. He violently jerked his head down, quickly pressing against the forearm of the man who had a handful of his hair. The knife went flying and Castiel twisted in the opposite direction. He drew his last arrow and let it fly.

The slaver dodged it, and the arrow found its home in the thigh of the king.

But for the way the king moved, it was as though pain was a sensation he knew nothing of. Castiel watched, for the fraction of a second he was allotted, as the king charged toward the last two of the slaver men. The one in front of him was cut down with a single swing of the king’s blade as a mighty roar erupted from his mouth. Blood spattered his clothing in a winding arc.

Even in his panicked haze, Castiel managed to put others before himself. So low to the ground was he that with a simple flick of his wrist the young prince was able to unsheathe the small knife attached to his boot. With a twist of his arm, Castiel sunk the blade into the slaver’s chest, knocking him off of his feet and plummeting to the ground.

The forest fell silent once more, save for the heavy breathing of two men who stood above the carnage.

“Cas.”

The call of his name caused Castiel to snap his neck toward the source of the sound so fast it nearly made his muscles seize.

“Castiel.”

The king moved to take a step, but the arrow lodged in his thigh would have none of it, and he fell to his hands, the carpet of moss cushioning his fall.

Castiel stood a great crossroad; on one hand, he could keep his freedom and run into the forest, or he could help the wounded king.

“Castiel, please.” There was pain in the king’s voice, but it didn’t sound as though it arose from any sort of physical wound. There was a look in the king’s eyes that made Castiel’s chest ache.

As though he could do anything else.

Castiel began toward the large oak to his left, kneeling down and pulling the moss from where it clung to the tree’s roots. In just a few moments, he’d pulled free one of the roots he’d recognize anywhere. He’d practically memorized all of the herbology books back home, and knew this one for it’s antiseptic properties.

Carefully he began back toward the king, who was regarding him with the strangest of expressions.

He ignored it. “Might I see how deep it’s gone?”

The king shifted and allowed Castiel to look on. With a shrug of his shoulder, Castiel pulled his bag from his back, and fished around it until he pulled free is extra water skin. He uncapped it and poured a measure of it where the king’s flesh met with the head of the arrow.

“I... I am going to pull it free.”

Nodding, the king steeled himself, clamping his jaw down on a spare piece of leather from one of the straps around his wrist.

The arrow hadn’t gone too deep, but Castiel knew that it would hurt regardless, and he took his time being as gentle as he possibly could. When the head of the arrow finally slipped out of the flesh of the king’s leg, both men let out a tremendous sigh.

Next, Castiel set about cleaning the wound with the water, filling his mouth with the roots of the plant he’d dug free from the earth. He apologized to the king as he pulled the mush free from his mouth and packed it in the wound. “I don’t exactly have a mortar and pestle on me, but it’ll do until we can get you to see a real doctor.”

“Come back with me. Please.”

The sincerity and longing Castiel heard in the king’s voice made his heart skip a beat. He could feel intense green eyes boring into him, and his breath stuttered.

“We’ll call the whole thing off, the marriage. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for just assuming that you’d, that we could-”

“I need to bandage your wound,” Castiel interrupted, dumbly. His voice felt thick on his tongue.

The king nodded mutely in answer, reaching to his arms as he rid himself of his shirt. With his teeth, he pulled the fabric apart and handed each segment to Castiel and, together, they bandaged the wound tightly.

And it was then that Castiel saw it, a glimmer of silver on a chain around the king’s neck. His ring rested against the chest of the king, and, next to it, it’s mate.

A wave of nausea washed over Castiel. He reached out and pressed his fingers to the bands, his voice hoarse as he spoke. “Where did you get this?”

The king looked down to where Castiel had pressed shaking hands to his chest. Slowly, he looked back up, their gazes catching. The air was heavy.

Before the king could speak, however, Castiel shuddered. “Where did you get this?” His voice sounded wild in his own ears.

The hand of the king was suddenly wrapped around Castiel’s own. “Cas,” his voice shook as he spoke. “This whole time, you-”

“Where did you get it!?” His scream echoed in the quiet of the forest.

The king pushed Castiel’s hand away, tearing the chain from his neck and setting free the two bands of metal. With a great gentleness that surprised even Castiel, the king took up the hand of the prince and slid one of the bands onto the ring finger of his left hand. Then, Castiel watched as the king did the same with the ring’s mate.

In a whisper, the king spoke. “When I raise a kingdom of my own, I’ll call upon you.”

Castiel felt as though he was falling, falling without an anchor, into nothingness, some stretching, gaping void that could do little else than swallow him up. The world came crashing down around him, and his voice shook with great strain as it escaped his mouth.

“Dean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings for this chapter: mild violence


	4. Chapter Four (Dean)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV shift from Castiel to Dean, spanning one chapter only. Time overlap from previous chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers will be listed at the bottom of each chapter.

“It’s a matter of great urgency that the prince be returned to his kingdom. More soldiers will be passing by here in the next few days. As it stands, I’m leaving you with coin for your word that, when my men come through your village, you’ll offer them what you can spare - water, blankets, food.”

A few of the villagers perked their heads up at the mention of coin.

“I’m putting my trust in you.” The king’s voice grew cold. “Don’t make me regret doing so.”

The village elder bowed graciously. “King Michael’s been nothing but good to our village; it would be our pleasure to aid the crown in any way we can, sir.”

“Thank you. Instruct any men following us to head north.” With a kick to his horse, they were off.

“Think you could’ve scare them a little more, Dean?”

The king rolled his eyes. “Anything to make sure they understand what’s at stake here, Sammy.”

Gabriel shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m the one here with you and not my brother. He’d pop a blood vessel with how you conduct yourself around his subjects.”

“You’re the one who offered to come along. You’d better not slow us down, either,” Dean shot back over his shoulder.

When Gabriel didn’t offer a retort, Dean sighed. If king Michael had been the one riding at his side and not the second-youngest prince of the kingdom, the entire process would have been slowed down to that of a snail’s pace. Michael was a man of diplomacy. Dean was a man of action.

Which was why, after three solid weeks of not even the slightest of trails, Dean became so frustrated that he nearly cracked his teeth from clenching his jaw so tightly.

“Throwing a temper tantrum isn’t going to solve anything,” his brother offered, wryly.

“He could be dead, Sam. Cas could be dead, and it’s all my damn fault. I should have known better, I should have talked to him more. I just go so caught up in the moment-”

“He’s gone south.”

Gabriel’s sudden announcement nearly knocked the wind out of Dean. “What? How do you know?”

“The village we first passed through, the one you gave a sack of gold to in exchange for outfitting our riders with any spare supplies? They gave us count of how many soldiers had passed through; they say fifty one, but by my count there’s only fifty, and no one is missing.”

Anxiety tightened Dean’s stomach. “How does that mean he’s gone south?”

Gabriel shook his head. “I know him better than most; if he was the extra head to pass through the village, it means he made it to look like he was another one of the soldiers. Turning the opposite way of where he knows we’re headed is exactly the type of thing he’d do.”

Dean sighed. “You’re sure?”

Gabriel shrugged. “It’s better than anything else we’ve got. Besides, I know how curious he can be - I’d bet money he’s in Treescend as we speak.”

“Hiding right under our noses,” Sam breathed a laugh. “It’s gutsy, but it’s smart, too. It’s easily the last place someone would look for him.”

So the men broke down their camp and packed their things, and the small garrison marched over the plains once again, in search of the still-missing prince. The sun was hot overhead, but none of the soldier’s in Dean’s garrison faltered even a step. He was glad he had such men loyal to him; each of them would get double - no, triple - their wages for their time spent.

But, as the days wore on, Dean began to fret, began to worry even more. The trek back to Treescend was arduous, but he knew he couldn’t rest until he found Castiel, if only to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness. Day after day did the king chide himself over the entire ordeal. How could he have been so foolish to assume that, after so many years, Castiel might feel the same? It didn’t matter. Dean would fix it, one way or another. He didn’t think he’d sleep right for the rest of his life if he didn’t. The weight of someone else’s world on his shoulders kept him going.

He and Sam had argued over their differing ideas on how to handle the entire situation. It hadn’t occurred to Dean to offer a reward for any man with information that lead to Castiel’s safe return. At first, when Sam had proposed the idea, Dean had grown irate. He’d felt that with the introduction of money into the equation, the chances of Castiel returning unharmed were dwindling. Who knows what likes of men would hunt after the prince knowing that bringing him in would earn a fair amount of coin. But, as the days pressed into weeks, Dean relented. New posters were created with a likeness of Castiel’s face and Dean sent many of his men to distribute them throughout the city. The same night, Dean made his way into the inn of a dear friend.

Despite the late hour, Benny’s face lit when he saw none other than the king on his doorstep. Dean was welcomed in with a clap on his shoulder and a beer mug in his hand.

“And what, brother, do I owe the pleasure of seeing you at my door?” Benny lit a few of the candles around the room, giving the otherwise dark room a warm glow.

“We think he’s come through here. My scribes are going to set about in the morning distributing fliers with his face on them. Sam’s talked me into offering a reward for his safe return, but it only makes me worry that he might end up hurt somehow.”

“Men in these parts aren’t too hungry for coin, but I can understand where you’re coming from.”

Dean sighed, then brought his tankard to his lips. In a few deep draughts, half of the mug was empty.

“Have you prepared yourself for other possibilities?”

Almost choking on his drink, Dean shook his head. “Other possibilities?”

“He’s been gone how long, now? He’s a pampered prince from a rich kingdom. How far do you honestly think he could have made it?”

“You don’t understand. He’s stronger than that, he’s more than just his title. He’s a prince, but he’s the youngest; no one thinks to keep an eye on him because he isn’t one to step on any toes, but I’ll be damned if he’s got himself too deep into trouble. He’s way too smart for that.”

“I just mean that, given how long it’s been since you started the search that, well, maybe he’s gone for good, figuratively or literally.”

A small noise sounded near the stairs, but neither of the men paid it any heed.

“I’m telling you, Benny, there’s no way he’s dead. He just can’t be.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, brother. Wish I could help.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s enough just listening to me bitch about it. We set out again as soon as we can, likely starting our sweep in the east first. I have to find him. I -have- to.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do for you, you let me know. I owe you my life.” Benny’s offer was genuine.

The king nodded. “Thanks. It’s times like this I wish you would have taken up my offer to be on the counsel.”

“I owe you my life, but that doesn’t mean it’s yours to bore to death.” Benny’s laugh was deep. He might have owed Dean his life, but there were always restrictions on what was considered fair payback.

“Oh, come on - the meetings aren’t that bad.” Dean let his lips curl up in a ghost of a smile, surprising considering all that was going on in his head.

Benny shook his head, and drank deep from his mug to avoid speaking about the matter. It only made Dean’s smile longer for a moment longer.

He made his way back to the royal suite long, long after midnight. The honey-wine had made his head swim, but his feet were still stuck firmly to the ground. His legs felt like lead weights as he struggled to move them over the floor, one in front of the other, but eventually he was able to shuck his boots from his feet and peel his jerkin over his head before he fell upon his bed.

It was well past mid-morning when he woke, and there was a drumming behind his eyes, in between his ears, that thrummed with the same staccato as his heart. Dean was no stranger to hangovers - of all of the vices to have, he felt that drinking wasn’t too terrible of one at all - and, thankfully, Sam had obviously foreseen the likelihood of his elder brother returning home well into his drink and had some of the staff bring the king a hearty meal with which to break his fast. Thankful that there was alone, at the meal mostly with his hands, already feeling better as he finished wiping the crumbs from his face.

Being gone for such a time, however, had allowed several problems to gather at Dean’s feet. He attended meetings with magistrates, allotted time to meet with his treasurers, and saw to any number of smaller problems in or about the royal lodgings. He responded to letters written by the nobles of his own kingdom and others alike, though, by nightfall, he was well past fed up. Sometimes it was good to be the king. Othertimes, however, Dean felt that he was in a bit over his head.

He hadn’t meant to be named king - the entire ordeal was more of an accident than not, a line in jest taking a bit too far. Those close to the king knew well the story, but the loyalty and generosity of the eldest Winchester boy was what earned him his title, not something as circumstantial as his birth.

The son of a blacksmith, Dean knew well his way around a sword. Or a knife. Or, a bit more importantly, a hammer and axe. And, it would seem, even the woods that, for generations, had remained untamed. Too thick was the foliage, too dangerous the beasts dwelling within that, for centuries, none dared even set foot inside the forest..

Until the lowly son a blacksmith who feared little in life decided to simply take something for himself.

He wasn’t a deserter, like he knew some of his men were. Nor was he a banker, or a lawyer, a poet or a musician. No, he’d simply started as a single soul with a dream.

When he first told Sam that he was going to take from the forest that most mortal men fear to even tread, his brother had laughed at him. Then, as Dean gathered in his company any man brave enough - or in some cases, stupid enough - it became clear that he wasn’t joking. It had not been an easy task. Without the aide of those at his side, Dean would have fallen to the forest, as countless men before him had. But, determined to build something from nothing, for those otherwise lost or broken souls, and, perhaps, a little for himself, Dean kept his chin high, and his gaze higher.

More and more men came to aid in the building of a city, felling trees and building up houses, until, in hardly a handful of years, something had been built from, seemingly, nothing. Dean hadn’t meant to be at the forefront of it all. It was his idea to try in the beginning, but it was with the fortitude and knowledge of many coming together before the city truly blossomed.

And so they first took to calling him their king as a joke, for what else might you call a man that had done so much? An entire empire build up from little but earth and wood, and by the hands of any man willing to work for his supper, headed by a just and righteous man, one born of common blood, and raised amongst the people.

The title stuck, and the joke faded, for it turned out Dean fit well in the role. Even those that had build the city up alongside of him began to look upon him with reverence.

Despite the thought that the title felt odd resting overhead, Dean knew well the struggles of the common man. No matter how tiresome the job became, the king felt that, having been lifted to the position by his peers, he simply couldn’t rescind it. Treescend was prosperous, and so began the expansion further into the vast forest or the south. When met with the sea, the people began to build a port city of their own accord, for travel by sea was far faster than any hooved beast could move upon the ground. Trade began. The neighboring kingdoms, knowing well the price of timber, quickly strived to win favor with the newly elevated kingdom. Dean was mostly glad that none of the other rulers of the realm had thought to wage war, to take the new kingdom for their own. Perhaps it was fear that kept them all from war, for the forest had never before been conquered by man, or perhaps instead it was the mere lack of support the kingdoms might have suffered through were they to declare war on a nation that was still in it’s infancy, against men they had no quarrel with. Suffice to say that Dean was pleased with the outcome, and was even happier to have garnered himself an invitation to the festival that the capital to the east threw for the solstice.

He’d pulled a nation from nothing, created a kingdom filled with men loyal to his name, and to say that he did it entirely for himself wouldn’t be too terribly far from the reality of it all. Part of him wished he had no throne to sit upon, no men to govern. The other part, however, that still carried his precious ring upon a chain around his neck, would argue.

Even after so many years, Dean’s heart belonged to one. And so, he’d written ahead to King Michael of the Eastern Plains, inquiring as to whether or not the youngest in line to the throne was otherwise taken. Therein was his first mistake. He should have simply sent word to Castiel. He was a fool, as often are men in love.

And then, at the solstice, dressed up in a mask, he’d managed to fall, once more, to Castiel’s side.

At first, there amidst the townsfolk, Dean hadn’t recognized the ring around Castiel’s finger. When he inquired about it, Castiel had, with a fluster, replied that it was a trinket. It was hardly a moment later that the king had realized that it was, in fact, the one he’d gifted him all those years ago, only worn to a shine from constant use. His heart, heavy in his chest, ached for the years lost between them.

That same night, to fall upon a knee and reveal himself, Dean had brought tears to Castiel’s eyes with his proposal. He thought everything was well - the ceremony was set up quickly, and the entire castle was alight with song and dance and frippery. When Dean removed the old ring from Castiel’s finger, he pledged himself anew. After all, he’d raised a kingdom from nothing, just like he had promised. Be it an accident was neither here nor there; what mattered was that he’d come to call upon Castiel, just like he’d promised.

But the tears that fell from the Castiel’s eyes weren’t that of joy, and it was far too late when Dean realized such.

With a broken heart, he’d set after his once dear friend, determined to set things straight between them. Dean felt that he couldn’t rest, not until Castiel was safe at home. He’d been too hung up on their past to even consider that their futures would no longer a viable idea. In the long run, the only thing that mattered was for Castiel to return home, safely. The sooner they could put the entire ordeal behind them, the better.

It was well into the night, a good week since he’d returned to Treescend, that Dean ended up, once more, in the company of Benny. He’d been busy with the captain of his guards, putting together the plans for several of his men to begin their search outside of the city walls, when instead of meeting his friend in his own establishment. Benny had come to Dean. He entered the hall with a look of utter disbelief stuck upon his face. He held one of the wanted posters with Castiel’s likeness in hand, breathing hard as though he’d run clear across the city.

“It’s him.”

Dean’s heart hammered in his chest. “You’ve found him?”

When Benny grimaced, the king grew worried. “Found might be too loose of a turn. For the past few weeks, I’ve had a young man under my employ, and it wasn’t until today that I actually saw the face on your wanted posters.”

“You mean-”

“There’s no mistaking it - your prince was here.”

“What happened, where is he now?” Dean could feel his muscles clenching in anticipation, breath coming short.

“That’s where it gets bad - your Castiel has been calling himself Emanuel, posing as a traveler from the north.”

“I don’t understand - what’s happened to him? Where is he now?”

Benny shook his head. “Haven’t a clue. When he worked for me, every so often he’d go and hunt on the outskirts of the city, past the wall. I assumed that’s all he was doing - it’s not unusual for him to be gone for a few days at a time. Some of your men put up your wanted posters outside of the bar, but today’s been the first day in a while that I’ve left my inn. I only just saw them. There’s no mistaking it, though - Castiel was here.”

Dean let out a string of curses that would make even the saltiest of mariners wince. He paused, pushed all other thought from his mind, and tried to concentrate on his next action.

“What gate did he normally leave from?”

Benny shrugged. “Don’t know. Never asked him, and he never said anything about it.”

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, the king fretted. After a long, harsh silence, he spoke. “Benny, find the captain of my guard. Tell him that Castiel was in the city, and to begin a city-wide search for him, in case he’s still here. Have him question the guards at all of the gates, to see if any of them knew Castiel as Emanuel, or might recognize his face. If he left the city often enough to hunt, someone might recall seeing him.”

Clapping Dean on the shoulder, Benny sighed. “You’re about to do something terribly stupid, aren’t you?”

Dean smiled, hope having renewed itself within his heart. “Damn right I am.”

In less than an hour, word came back to the king that one of the guards posted at the wall had, in fact, witnessed the man known as Emanuel leave the city several days previous.

It was Sam, however, who placed his hand on his elder brother’s shoulder. “You can’t just go after him, Dean. You’re needed here.”

There was a fire burning in the kings’ veins, one that could not be quelled by simple words alone. “I don’t care.”

“You’re lying - you do care.”

Cursing under his breath, Dean scrubbed at the back of his head. “What am I supposed to do, Sammy? I can’t be in two places at once. They need me here, but Cas needs me. I need to be the one to see him, the one to apologize, the one to set all of this straight.”

Frustrated, Sam sighed. He pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids, then shook his head and let his arms fall. “What’s your plan of action - just to go into the forest and hope for the best?”

This time, Dean smiled. “Yup.”

“Dean-”

“There’s no man who knows the forest better than me, right?”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s no talking you out of this, is there?”

Dean’s smile only grew.

Their eyes met, and a strained silence stretched between them. Eventually, Sam rolled his eyes. “Take your sword.”

“You keep everything from burning down for me, alright?” He was already running to the door.

“If you’re not back in a week, I’m taking the crown for myself.”

At sunrise, Dean was clear of the city. He ushered his horse on at a steady pace, keeping mostly to the worn trail packed into the dirt of the forest floor. The woods smelled of earth and pine, and were a welcomed scent. Though many of Treescend’s buildings were made of wood, the lofty scent of freshly cut lumber had long since been overcome by the smell of industrialization as the city grew. Dean hadn’t realized quite how he’d come to miss it until he was able to greedily fill his lungs with the air of the forest.

The days wore on, and Dean’s spirit wore down. Every day he spent without finding a trace of Castiel was a day that tore at him, at his hope. Nearly a full week of travel and nothing. When he made it to the port city his people were building, he should have been filled with awe at how far they’d come in such a short time. Instead, the only thing he felt inside of him was a welling of dread heavy and sour in his stomach like spoiled milk.

Several of his men met with him inside the city. They remarked at their surprise over having not expected the king to make his way into the port alone, but they seemed happy to see him all the same. They offered him what water they carried with them. He thanked them, but declined when they asked him if he’d like take a meal at one of the newly finished inns.

“Later, perhaps. I don’t feel as though I can sit still at the moment.”

Slowly, upon his horse, he wandered the city. He looked on as the workers hung up their tools for the night, getting ready for supper with the families, if they had them, or their friends if they didn’t. Night darkened the horizon, and stars began to shine through the blanket of ink-colored sky.

It was by complete accident that the king stumbled upon the small performance troupe that had set up their wagon to entertain the workers. A small crowd had gathered, and by the looks of it the play was a great deal through, but still Dean paused to observe.

It was but a single line, one that rang out clear and loud in Dean’s mind, that stopped his heart in his chest.

“No matter what happens, I’ll always come when you call.”

Those words, those exact words, had been whispered to him once before. Though they were common enough, Dean simply knew that there was but one mind they’d come from. 

With a dizzy feeling in his head, the king sought the patriarch of the encampment as the curtains closed. The man smiled as Dean approached. “What can I do for you, good sir?”

It wasn’t a surprise that the man didn’t recognize to whom he spoke. It wasn’t as though Dean’s face was well known, king or not; traveling performers weren’t expected to recognize the face of many, for even when they lingered in one place, it was never for long.

“Who wrote your play?”

The man’s eyebrows furrowed, but it was the hesitation before the act that gave him away. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I understand - we are a group of traveling performers; we all had a hand in the creative process.”

Dean, his fingers beginning to shake ever so slightly, reached into his pocket and procured one of the posters that had Castiel’s face on it. “This man - where is he?”

The patriarch’s eyes grew to a suspicious squint. “I beg your pardon, sir, but-”

Reaching into his shirt, Dean pulled free the chain he wore around his neck. On it, a single, simple pendant dangled, the crest of the kingdom he rose from the forest floor. “Where. Is. He?”

Color drained from the man’s face, but Dean stamped out any guilt he felt for the situation.

“I’m so sorry, your highness - I wasn’t, I mean, I’m not -”

Dean forced himself to calm. “He was known to you as Emanuel, correct?”

The man, still pale, nodded.

“He’s not in trouble, he’s not in danger,” Dean wore on to explain.

“I don’t mean to argue, sir, but the entire kingdom knows you’ve been looking for him. There’s an offer for his return; why else could you be after him but to take reparations for an ill deed?”

The king scrubbed at his face. He sighed, shook his head. He’d never been one for sharing, but the situation wasn’t making room for other options. Finally, he spoke. “It was all a mistake,” he offered, looking the man dead in the eyes. “I’m not after him for running away from our wedding; I’m after him to apologize for not talking to him about it in the first place.”

Dean’s words seemed to calm the man down. “I wish I could help more, your highness. The man who called himself Emanuel traveled with our troupe but for a few days. Once we made it to the city, we split ways.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Half a day, give or take.”

Hope surged anew in Dean’s veins. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

A small hand tugged at his sleeve, and Dean turned his attentions to one of the children of the troupe. He was a young boy, with bright, curious eyes. “Do you really mean only to apologize to him?”

The patriarch hissed, obviously aghast at how one from his troupe was speaking to a royal. Dean, however, paid it no heed. “That’s right,” he said to the child. “I want to say that I’m sorry, and I want to take him back home so he can be with his family again.”

For a moment, the child was quiet. He bit his lip, then shook his head and spoke. “A few of us saw him leaving the city by the east gate earlier. He was with a bunch of mean-looking men, and he said that he’d bought passage on a boat in exchange for helping a man move some livestock.”

It felt as though Dean’s blood had turned to ice in his veins. Report has come from the new port city back to Treescend about the new ‘livestock’ trade; it was code for slavers. Thinking quickly, Dean tore the chain from his neck and handed the crest to the man in front of him. “Will you help me?”

The man nodded, taking the crest.

“Go to the Seven Sisters Inn, on the West side of the port. Inside, you’ll find a few of my men. Show them this crest, and tell them these exact words: all ships are to be docked until further notice. Then, I need half of the company to follow me into the forest, from the same gate your kid said he saw Emanuel - Castiel - leave through. Do you understand?”

The man nodded once, then took off running.

Fear blossomed in Dean’s heart as he climbed atop his mount, his thumping heartbeat echoing in his ears like the thundering of hooves beneath him. The city was a blur in his vision as he streaked through it, and soon he was upon the threshold of the great, expansive forest.

Even from atop his horse, Dean could easily track any creature through his wood. Even if the men in Castiel’s company were seasoned trackers themselves, the king knew the forest far better than any other man. He slowed his pace, narrowing his focus. The sounds of the swaying three branches and the twitter of birds fell on deaf ears, for so focused was Dean that he pushed any and all other thought from his mind. There was only the trail the men left, and, at the end, Castiel.

When it became too dark for him to properly see, Dean dismounted and let his horse rest. For what few hours Dean managed to sleep for, it did him little good; when he woke, he was sore, and there was a pounding in his head that ran deep, down to his bones. What was worse, his heart ached more deeply than his head.

As the sun rose, as darkness faded from the trees, Dean mounted his horse and began, once more, into the forest. What telltale signs of marching men Dean found, they were fresh. They ignited his spirit anew, the ache in his heart replaced by that of one brought on by anxiety, the dreadful uncertainty that loomed on the horizon.

Dean felt a fool. He hadn’t brought any of his men, and it might be quite some time before those sent after him managed to catch up. He had his sword at his side, but one blade alone against a multitude of men, likely used to violence themselves, given their trade, wasn’t enough to make him feel as though the odds were stacked in his favor. But, the idea of Castiel in the midsts of such villains only served to add fuel to the fire that ran through Dean’s veins.

The forest became quiet, and it made the hair on the back of Dean’s neck rise. He stopped the movement of his horse and strained to listen to anything out of the ordinary. It was little wonder, then, when he heard a deep voice cry out.

“Run! Run!”

The earth beneath him streaked by, a haze of greens and browns. His heart was in his throat, for he had recognized the voice, knew it that could only be Castiel. The ground sloped upward, and when Dean crested the small hill, the scene that played out before him was one that made him see red. He was off his horse before the creature even stopped, his sword already in hand.

“Let him go.”

By the looks of it, Castiel had managed to fell four of slavers already. They lay, quiet and unmoving, upon the forest floor, arrows protruding from their skulls or necks. Castiel himself, however, hadn’t managed to avoid harm completely; one of the men had punched Castiel quarely in the gut, and was now holding him by a handful of the hair atop his head.

“He’s killed four of my men, and let our quarry get away. Who are you to deny me retribution?”

Dean watched as the man pressed a knife to Castiel’s throat.

“You’re hunting human slaves in the king’s forest. I would think very carefully about whatever falls out of your mouth next, because your life might depend on it.”

“The king’s forest? And who are you, then? His lap dog?” The man dared to laugh.

“I’m the damn king!” Dean’s words rang out through the trees, the deep rumble of his voice making his words sound less like the speech of man and more like the growl of a feral beast. Then, silence settled.

The man standing between Castiel and the king stole looks from either side of him, as if he were weighing his options.

Castiel, however, wasn’t looking to give him a chance. Dean watched on as Castiel jerked his head down, knocking the knife out of the slaver’s hands as he fell, sending the blade spiraling into the air. With a twist of his slim body, Castiel had strung his last arrow and let it fly toward the man standing between he and Dean.

The man dodged it, by the breadth of a hair, and instead the arrow lodged itself into Dean’s thigh.

But the adrenaline pumping through his veins, nearly deafening the world around him, pressed him onwards, and, with hardly a few steps, Dean had charged the man in front of him, cutting him down with a mighty blow of his sword. Blood sprayed in an arc as his blade swung free of the flesh it had torn asunder.

Dean turned just in time to see Castiel plunge the dagger Dean had given him into the slaver’s chest.

The only sound in the forest was that of the two men, breathing heavily. It was eerie and tight, and it nearly choked Dean. He took a swallow of air before he dared to speak. The name that fell past his lips was one he’d always kept close at heart. “Cas.”

Castiel’s head snapped toward Dean, as if the prince might have forgotten who else remained still breathing in the clearing with him.

“Castiel.” The whole name, not the shortened version he’d always called the prince by. Dean made to take a step, but the pain that had been staved off from the rush of adrenaline came back in full force, and he fell to the forest floor as the muscles in his leg seized.

“Castiel, please.” This time, his voice was almost a whisper. In two simple words, Dean tried to fit every emotion, every feeling he could; the anguish of losing the heart of the man he loved, the guilt over making Castiel feel as though the only way to escape was running away, the self-loathing he felt over being stupid enough to think that building up a kingdom on his own would truly be enough to finally allow him the one thing he truly wanted - Castiel by his side.

As Castiel slowly began toward a tree to the left of Dean, the king’s heart stuttered, then began to hammer at the inside of his chest, as if it were desperate to escape. After digging around in the roots for a few moment, Castiel began toward the king. His mannerism, however, made Dean feel all the more the part of the villain - he walked with hesitation in his step, a subduedness that likened him to that of a startled doe.

“Might I see how deep it’s gone?”

The first words Castiel speaks to him after months of running from him were not what Dean expected. He’d rehearsed their fateful encounter a thousand ways in his mind, in his dreams, and not a single time had he thought of those words falling out of Castiel’s mouth. Dean lacked the words to speak with, so he kept his mouth shut, his mind a mess. He shifted, and allowed Castiel to look on.

After a moment, Castiel freed his waterskin from his bag and poured some of its contents over the skin where the arrowhead protruded from.

“I... I am going to pull it free.”

Dean nodded, then took one of the leather straps from his wrist guard and sunk his teeth into it. The arrow wasn’t buried particularly deep, but even so Castiel made his every movement gentle, his touch tender. When the arrow was finally free, each of the men let out a shuddering sigh.

While Castiel cleaned the wound with his hands, he chewed at the root he’d pulled from the near the tree he’d knelt by earlier. When the wound looked free of grit and fibers from Dean’s pants, Castiel took out the wad of masticated root from his mouth and packed it, gently, into the wound. “I don’t exactly have a mortar and pestle on me, but it’ll do until we can get you to see a real doctor.”

Dean couldn’t believe that Castiel was apologizing for not helping enough.

The words that tumbled out of Dean next were sloppy, hurried, but he found he could no more stop them than he could stop the sun from rising. “Come back with me. Please.” He could hear the desperation in his own voice. “We’ll call the whole thing off, the marriage. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for just assuming that you’d, that we could-”

“I need to bandage your wound.” Castiel wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Dean bit his tongue so hard that he could feel the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. He nodded, choking his words down, and pulled his shirt over his head, using his teeth to begin tearing at the fabric so to make it into strips for his wound.

Castiel’s hand reached out and pressed his fingers to the two rings Dean wore on a chain around his neck. Their rings. “Where did you get this?”

Dean looked down, as if he were unsure as to what else, exactly, Castiel could possibly mean. He raised his head, and their gazes finally caught. The air around them was oppressive, thick.

Before Dean could open his mouth to breathe, Castiel voice shattered the silence of the forest. “Where did you get this?”

Dean reached down and took Castiel’s hand in his own. “Cas,” his voice shook as he spoke, his heart shattering into even smaller pieces. “This whole time, you-”

“Where did you get it!?” Castiel’s scream echoed through the trees.

Dean tore the chain from his neck. With the rings in hand, he took Castiel’s hand and slid one of the bands onto the ring finger of his left hand. In turn, he did the same thing with the ring’s mate on his own finger.

It all made sense - everything, every word, every gesture, every moment of the last few weeks. Dean’s heart ached in his chest, deep, and he struggled to fight the tears that gathered in the corners of his vision; Castiel didn’t recognize him. When Dean spoke, it was with a whisper, for that was all he had the power to muster. “When I raise a kingdom of my own, I’ll call upon you.”

Castiel’s face fell, as an angel might fall from the heavens; down, down, down, only to be dashed upon the rocks below. When the prince managed to find his voice, it was pained, sounding as if it were physically clawing at his throat to escaped his mouth.

“Dean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings for this chapter: mild violence


	5. Chapter Five (Castiel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV shift from Dean back to Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers will be listed at the bottom of each chapter.
> 
> **Art for this chapter provided by the amazing[madches](http://madches.tumblr.com/)**

They stared at one another, either hardly daring to even breathe. Castiel opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came from him, not even the slightest of whispers. Achingly slowly, Castiel leaned forward and brought his hands up to rest on either side of the king’s face. With methodical movements, he raked his gaze over the other man’s face, mapping freckles and scars alike, searching every inch of skin he could see.

After a great, shuddering sigh, Castiel gathered all of the courage he had and spoke naught but a single word.

“Dean.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement - as if when Castiel spoke it aloud it came to be.

The king swallowed before he spoke. He reached his hands up, gripping Castiel’s wrists gently. “Yeah, Cas - it’s me.”

Another shuddering breath, as if the word itself was heavy with physical weight. “Dean.”

Dean nodded in Castiel’s hands, and Castiel felt stubble scratch at his palms.

“Dean.” The last time Castiel spoke the name aloud, he smiled. He couldn’t help it - he could feel his heart become lighter and lighter until he felt as though his very head was filled with air. He laughed, completely overcome by his emotions, as tears of happiness slid down his face. In all of a heartbeat, he moved forward to press himself against his long-lost, newly-found love, his legs on either side of Dean’s thighs, their chests pressed tight against one another. He felt Dean’s arms fall from his wrists, only to snake around his waist, pulling the two of them even closer.

(art provided by the amazing [madches](http://madches.tumblr.com/))

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel tried to say. But, between his gasps of air and his shaking, the words fell out garbled, more like a surrender than an apology.

Dean brought their foreheads to rest against one another. “No,” he smiled, even though he, too, was struggling for breath. “You don’t ever get to apologize to me, do you understand?”

Castiel hiccuped, again attempting to speak, but was cut off by the press of soft lips against his own. The ache inside of him, nearly fathomless, slowly began to ebb, as if, for the first time, he understood that he could finally have something he wanted, needed, craved. “Dean, please, I-”

Another kiss to quiet his words, soothe his nerves. “No, no, no,” Dean chanted against Castiel’s lips, over and over again. “I should have - we shouldn’t - fuck.” He punctuated the sentence with another string of kisses, hurried and greedy, and Castiel knew the tipping of his entire world was a shared experience.

The press of lips became slower and more scarce. Castiel’s shirt clung close to his body, any excess gathered in the tight fists of Dean, as though he were afraid that, were he to let go, the entire world might shatter at his feet.

Finally, eased by their own exhaustion, they pulled back, only so far as so they might catch the gaze of the other once more.

Dean smirked, though it looked more pained than not. “This entire time, you didn’t know it was me?”

Castiel’s shoulders shook, but not with laughter. It was a somewhat dense feeling that gathered in the pit of his stomach. He wished he knew the words to speak, but, even learned as he was, he remained silent. Shaking his head, Castiel merely shrugged, then pressed his lips against Dean’s once more.

The sound of horse hooves shattered the quiet the forest had been blanketed in, and Castiel and his king turned to see who approached. For a moment, fear rose in Castiel’s heart - were they more slavers, ruffians?

When the strangers came into sight, Castiel let relief wash over him; each man was decorated in light armor, all bearing the crest of the king of the Southern Forests. It was only with great effort that he eased himself up and off of Dean’s lap, bending low to help the king up.

Dean hissed as he stood, the wound in his thigh obviously causing him pain. “You’re late,” he playfully chided his soldiers, who all looked both relieved to see their king alive, and somewhat distressed to see the pile of bodies around them.

“Sir, we-”

“It’s alright. I’m alright.” Dean turned to Castiel, his eyes glinting. “We’re alright.”

Castiel tried to hide his smile. Hefting one of Dean’s arms over his shoulder, Castiel walked the both of them toward the soldiers. Several of the them dismounted, coming to gather around their king.

“Cas, do you know the name of the asshole who talked you into this?”

The smile that lit his face drifted away, and he shook his head. “I didn’t know he meant people when he said livestock.”

Dean shook his head. “Most wouldn’t, either. It’s alright - you didn’t know. But, his name? Can you describe him?”

The shock of the entire situation was still making Castiel’s extremities buzz. He fumbled with his words for a few moments before he was finally about to form a coherent sentence. “Somewhat short, perhaps a little thick, portly. Dressed in black. Bit of a receding hairline-”

“Damnit, it’s Crowley.”

“Yes. Yes, his name is Crowley.”

Dean pointed at several of his guards who still held the reins to their horses’ leads in hand. “The three of you get back to the port as quickly as you can and wrangle up any and every soldier you find. Get Crowley - make sure he doesn’t leave the city.”

Thee voices sounded off in almost perfect unison. “Yes’sir!” A clatter of hoofbeats and they were gone.

Dean turned to several of his other soldiers. “I need a horse; I won’t be able to make it far with my wound.” Instantly, one of the men dismounted his steed and handed the reins to his king. Even with the wound in his leg, Dean still managed on his own; with one foot lifted to the stirrups, he hefted himself up and onto the horse’s back.

Castiel found himself smiling at the sight, though he tried to hide it. The man before him was still the same boy who’d stolen his heart all those years ago - strong of body, and of mind. When Dean turned toward Castiel and offered his hand, he hesitated. His pause was met with a slow smile on Dean’s part. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again.” The words he spoke were soft, meant for no other ears than the two of them. Castiel allowed himself to be pulled into the saddle, where Dean situated them so that Castiel’s back was to his chest, and, with an arm wrapped tightly around his middle, the king, the prince, and the soldiers began their journey back to town.

Eventually, the adrenaline began to fade from his veins, and Castiel realized he was trembling. Though he tried valiantly to keep from doing so, it was of little use; his body was coming down from a chemical-fueled high, and he found it likely that he was going into shock. But, even as his hands shook, even as his fingers began to feel as though they were slowly turning to frost, the warm hand that encircled his waist comforted him against it all.

Every so often, Dean would move his hand from resting against Castiel’s hip or thigh to rest, instead, over his heart. It was only after the fifth or so time that Castiel’s curiosity got the better of him. “What is it that you’re doing?”

He felt Dean’s breath at the base of his neck, felt the heat of Dean’s body against his back. For a moment, Castiel worried that Dean might not answer him. But, eventually, he came to speak, the words warm against the back of Castiel’s ear. “I want to make sure you’re really here with me.”

Whatever doubt Castiel had huddled in the back of his mind over Dean’s feelings for him washed away with a simple touch, with simple words. Castiel reached up and threaded his fingers through Dean’s, pressing their joined hands against his chest. Though Castiel didn’t speak, the message was clear; there was no other place he’d rather be.

It was dusk when they finally reached the port, and Castiel, despite his elation over how he’d been reunited with his lost love, was beginning to succumb to the heavy tendrils of exhaustion. His limbs, weighty and aching, made him feel as though he were struggling to walk through water. It wasn’t long until he was helped from his horse and ushered into the candle-lit foreroom of an inn, where upon a heaping bowl of stew was pressed into his hands. He ate without focus, until the bowl was empty, his meal sitting like a stone in his stomach.

Strong hands roused him from his twilight-like state, calloused palms pressed against each of his shoulders, and guided him from the main room and up a flight of stairs that groaned beneath his weight. The world went momentarily dark before him. The dark was enough to snap Castiel out of his momentary cognitive lapse, but hardly a breath later there came a soft glow from across the room. Dean, bent over the side-table next to the bed, had lit a candle, and the warm light it bathed him in made Castiel’s throat run dry.

When Dean turned and held out his hand to Castiel, the young prince could feel his pulse quicken. Wordlessly, he outstretched his own hand, his and Dean’s fingers slotting together.

Whatever Castiel had hoped might happen, however, was pushed from his mind when Dean maneuvered him to sit on the bed, took off his shoes, and promptly tucked him into bed. A soft kiss was pressed against his forehead, and, absolutely to Castiel’s surprise, Dean blew out the candle and left the room.

For a moment, Castiel sulked like a petulant child. He’d been put to bed after supper, as though he’d done something naughty, as if he were a schoolboy. Sleep, however, overcame him soon after, and wiped any other ideas he might have had harbored in the back of his mind.

His dreams were scattered, and when he woke he hardly remembered what they’d been about, but, as he rubbed at this eyes with the dawn sun warming his bedcovers, his thoughts traveled elsewhere. What was to be done with him, now that he was - for lack of a better term - at the mercy of the forest king? Their shared kisses in the forest hardly a day before felt, instead, as though they’d taken place eons ago. What was to become of Castiel now that he’d likely be thrust, once more, into the life of a prince?

Castiel sulked. He couldn’t help it. He’d come to feel as though he’d finally found himself, and for what? To be simply burdened with the responsibility that came with being royal by birth?

Knowing that Dean was likely already awake - given the thunderous sounds coming from downstairs - Castiel resigned himself to fully wake and dress. The gentle patter of rain on the window didn’t do much to lighten his mood. Regardless, he was well-versed in the manner of not letting his face show his true feelings - for negotiations can quickly turn toward or against one’s desires - and, as he descended the stairs, he tried to wipe any conflicting emotion from his face.

One of the men at Dean’s side was the first to notice Castiel as he entered the common room, and the man gently gestured to his king. Dean turned around instantly, and Castiel couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips when Dean looked at him with such unabashed admiration.

“You sleep alright?” Dean asked as Castiel took his place next to him.

“Yes, thank you.”

Dean made a motion toward some of his men, and they began to move toward the door of the inn. He turned back to look at Castiel and spoke. “We’re heading out for Treescend, if you think you’re up for the journey. I’ve gone ahead and sent a messenger to your brother.”

Castiel must have let his mask slip, for it seemed to him that Dean carefully chose his next words. “We just let him know that you’re alive and well, and that we’ll give him more updates as things... progress.”

It wasn’t hard for Castiel to discern the careful tone in which Dean spoke. He, however, couldn’t think of anything else to say in return, other than a simple, “thank you.”

While Castiel may have otherwise liked the rain, being stuck atop a horse, half-soaked and chilled, was not his ideal way to travel. But, Dean had insisted they push on, and, not really having a better reason other than he was uncomfortable, Castiel felt he had no place to argue.

“What’s the matter, Cas?”

Dean’s question had caught Castiel somewhat off guard. Despite riding the same horse as Dean, he and Castiel hadn’t spoken much as the day wore on. “I don’t like getting caught in the rain,” he answered simply.

Dean’s voice fell to a hush. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I don’t...”

“Cas, even after all these years I can still read you. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but if something’s bothering you...”

For a moment, Castiel warred with himself. When he finally gathered the words, he spoke, his voice low. “Last night, you...”

He felt Dean exhale, the warmth of his breath cascading down the back of Castiel’s neck. “I didn’t want to presume,” he answered, as if it were obvious.

For a moment, Castiel was rendered speechless. Out of all the possible things for Dean to say, Castiel has not be prepared to hear that. He felt Dean chuckle against his back, and, despite how cold the rain was, he suddenly felt hot all over.

The rough, unexpected catch of Dean’s stubble at the skin behind Castiel’s ear made him startle. The hand around Castiel’s stomach tightened. 

Dean sighed, his voice still hushed. “So much has happened over the last few weeks. I wasn’t sure... I didn’t know...”

Castiel had often thought himself a well-spoken man. He could recite poetry with as much aplomb and ease as when he debated with foreign nationals about the migration of trade routes. Despite all of that, however, he knew that there were no words in his vast vocabulary that would so easily sum up his feelings as the simple action that he took next; with a gentle hand, Castiel pressed his palm against the side of Dean’s face and guided their faces close together. The kiss he pressed to Dean’s mouth was so delicate that it was almost chaste, but even so Castiel could feel his cheeks redden.

Completely taken by surprise, Dean froze in place. When Castiel turned to move away, however, Dean cupped the prince’s chin and he pulled them together once more. The soft press of their lips made Castiel’s head swim, and he felt the hand around his middle pull him backward, so that his back was flush with Dean’s chest.

A nearby horse let out a soft whinny, and Castiel broke away from Dean, completely having forgotten how many of the king’s men rode around them. Castiel could feel his skin heat as he turned a deep shade of red, and Dean let out a soft laugh at the sight.

The arm around Castiel’s middle didn’t loosen, and, even with how flustered he felt at the thought of so many sets of eyes upon him, he still felt happy at the weight of it.

When they stopped and camp was made for the night, there was no fire, for, while it had stopped raining, the forest remained wet. Small tents were up here and there, but many of the men in Dean’s company seemed content to merely wrap up in a thick wool blanket, then rest against the base of fallen logs and standing trees alike. The meal they shared was sparse - dried meat and fruit - but it sat well within their bellies.

And, when Dean stood to retreat to his tent that night, he paused, coming to stand next to Castiel. The king held his hand out in open invitation and, even with so many eyes upon him, Castiel stood, his hand easily fitting into Dean’s.

He didn’t know what to expect. His only relationship had been, of course, made up of stolen kisses when he was a boy. Castiel still marveled at how he could so easily recall the feel of Dean’s fingers entwining in his own. Even after so many years, their hands slid together, palm against palm, familiar, constant.

There wasn’t much standing room in the tent, but it was of little consequence. Both men peeled off their wet clothing and donned something clean and dry. Castiel’s gaze fell to his hands then, resting one inside of the other, and he found himself at a loss of words. It was the gentle caress of a thumb across his cheek that caused him to look up and finally meet Dean’s gaze. Their eyes caught, before green eyes wandered lower, watching intently as Dean’s thumb caressed Castiel’s bottom lip.

It was like the air between them was charged, electrified. Castiel felt as though he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs, and such a problem was only intensified when Dean’s lips came crashing down on his own. A mess of movement the both of them were, each greedily grabbing at the other, pulling at clothing and raking nails across exposed skin.

But, much to Castiel’s surprise, when they fell to the blanket-covered earth, Dean remained content to merely kiss the breath out of him. It wasn’t as though Castiel would make any complaints - any contact with Dean was better than the vacancy that had invaded his heart in Dean’s absence - but the fire in his veins that had been ignited with the way Dean had held him earlier in the day was burning brightly, awakening things within him he’d long since thought had been lost. He felt desire well up inside of him, mirrored in the way that he let his mouth fall open to the onslaught of Dean’s hot, wet tongue. His head was swimming, his breath was short, and he felt as though his clothing might be choking him.

But, while Dean kissed the breath out of Castiel, his hands roamed merely across his back, moving to cup Castiel’s face or to card fingers through dark locks of messy hair.

“Dean.” Castiel’s extensive vocabulary failed him, for the name of his beloved was the only word on his lips, the only word that could fit in his mouth, and he whispered it as if it were holy, a mantra.

Suddenly, Dean pulled back. Castiel struggled to surge forward, to capture Dean’s mouth once more, but he hesitated when his name fell from Dean’s mouth as if it brought him pain. “Cas.”

Castiel reveled in the way the simple three letters made his breath quicken. He reached up and cupped his hand to the back of Dean’s throat, attempting to pull him in for yet another greedy, hungry kiss.

“Cas.” This time, there was no mistaking it; there truly was pain in Dean’s voice, and Castiel pulled back.

Their eyes met, each struggling to regain their breath.

Castiel began to plead, but his words were sealed within him as Dean placed a chaste kiss against his lips.

“I know, Cas. I know.” Dean’s voice shook.

“But, I-”

This time, Dean’s finger rose, pressing against Castiel’s lips to quickly silence him. “Not here,” he explained. “Not on the forest floor, not with so many around us.”

Castiel couldn’t help the pitiful way he keened, hungry once more for Dean’s lips, Dean’s touch.

Something in Castiel’s stomach coiled up tight at the positively devilish look Dean gave him. “Doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.”

And the, suddenly, there were hands at the strings of Castiel’s breeches, deft and quick. Dean’s hand was hot around him, a shocking contrast to the chill in the air of the forest. Castiel bit at the knuckles of his right hand to keep from crying out, and nearly drew blood when he was enveloped by the scorching, wet heat of Dean’s mouth.

Castiel was unable to quiet the sharp intake of air that pulled past his lips as Dean swallowed him down even further, hand fisted around the base of him. Castiel’s hips canted upwards of their own volition, his free hand moving to fist in the blanket at his side. Dean never once broke stride, making the poor prince shudder where he lie.

When Castiel dared to look down over the expanse of his own chest, Dean held his gaze and pumped his fist, matching the rhythm of his hands with the pull of his searing mouth. His pupils were blown wide, framed only by the tiniest sliver of green, and Castiel didn’t think he’d ever seen something both so obscene and thrilling in all his life.

As Castiel’s breath became shallow, almost strangled, Dean smiled. The hand he’d fisted in the blanket let the fabric slip through his fingers, and he moved it, instead, to the side of Dean’s head, then to card his fingers through Dean’s hair, and he was rewarded with a deep, rumbling growl. It was almost enough to push him over the edge then and there. Castiel’s hips pushed upward, desperate for purchase, friction - for something, anything. The pull of lips became quicker then, and the soft little gasps that fell past Castiel’s mouth only pushed Dean onward.

“Dean, I - Dean, please.” The words spilled out of Castiel’s mouth as though a floodgate had been breached.

Impossibly, the wet, hot suction of Dean’s mouth increased, and Castiel shook and gasped for air. Then, when the white-hot heat that had coiled inside of him stole the breath from his lungs, the very thoughts right out of his head, Dean hummed, low and deep, his fist pumping and slightly twisting, and Castiel’s world became one of little other than sensation. He felt as though he were floating downward from the heavens, caught on a gentle breeze. Almost detached, he felt Dean swallow all of him down, each aftershock that pulsed through him met by the greedy mouth still lapping at the very tip of him.

As the world once more came into focus around him, Castiel became aware of the taste of himself on Dean’s mouth as their lips pressed together in gentle, tender kisses. He felt light-headed, his mind softly buzzing.

Whatever sweet words fell from Dean thereafter were lost on Castiel, as all too soon he drifted to sleep, sated, content, and blissful.

When they rose in the morning, Castiel couldn’t help the warming blush he felt creep over his face every time he caught Dean staring out of the corner of his eyes as they both packed up their supplies. It seemed both novel and familiar to him at once, the way his heart tightened in his chest. To say that Dean stole little kisses from him as they readied their gear would be a mistruth, for Castiel willingly gave them up. 

As all other times, Castiel again rode in front of Dean. The rain had finally stopped for good, and while the forest still had a distinctive feeling of dampness, their clothes were dry and the air was rapidly warming.

And all of that would have been well and good if, every great once in a while, the heel of Dean’s palm didn’t shift to rub against the front of Castiel’s pants. The first time, he thought perhaps it had been a mistake. After the second time, he became more than suspicious. The third time it happened, Castiel could feel Dean smile against the back of his neck. And so, he thought to fight fire with fire. The next time Dean’s palm rubbed against him, Castiel ground his hip backwards.

Two things happened; the first, Dean let out a sharp gasp, obviously not having expected such a reaction from Castiel, and the second, Dean’s touches began to change. Instead of a palm against Castiel’s pants, a mere finger grazed the fabric; a gentle nip at the back of his neck or on his ear lobe, the scratch of stubble rubbing against his skin.

It was torture. Delicious torture. Castiel was nearly half sure it would drive him insane. Somehow, the thought didn’t much bother him.

When they dismounted to make camp for the night, a fire was started. Though the company was somewhat small, Castiel felt moderately guilty that he didn’t know any of their names. He recognized a few by their faces alone; the soldier with a mole on his left cheek was the one who took care of the horses, and who seemed well-liked by the beasts in return, while the one with the crooked scar that puckered the skin on his chin was the one who rationed out the food to everyone. But other than simply having noticed what small physical differences that made each distinct and observed what they did with themselves when it came time to break for camp, Castiel knew little of Dean’s men.

That was why that night, no matter how Dean’s touches had made his blood burn within his veins throughout the day, Castiel was happy to sit around the fire as the sun faded from the sky, alongside the men in Dean’s company. As they ate, they began to talk, sharing stories, and it wasn’t long before Castiel began to truly enjoy himself.

As Dean was recanting to his men the very same story that Castiel remembered had been told those so many nights ago at the masquerade about a particularly gassy mule, the entire company was red-faced from laughter. Even having heard the story before - this time, in contrast, quite sober - Castiel couldn’t help but laugh alongside the others.

Though in the back of Castiel’s mind festered worry for the close future, what might happen if, or when, his brother and king might again see him, for the moment he was simply happy

As the laughter died down, the soldier sitting on the opposite side of Dean than Castiel, leaned toward his king and whispered something against his ear. Dean nodded in reply, then turned to Castiel as he spoke. “One of my men needs to talk to me for a moment. I’ll be right back, alright?”

Castiel nodded in reply, then watched as Dean and the soldier walked away from the fire.

That was when the mood changed. Castiel hadn’t really noticed the tension in the air between he and Dean’s company, but, with Dean gone, Castiel chided himself for not picking it up.

Finally, one of the soldiers spoke. “Your highness,” he bowed his head respectfully.

“Uh, yes?” Castiel couldn’t help but slightly shrink back into himself, hunching his shoulders. How he hated confrontation.

The soldier who spoke previously looked around to his comrades, then back to Castiel. He took a deep breath, as if gathering his courage, then met Castiel’s eyes as he began again. “With all due respect, sire, we worry for our king.”

Castiel nodded. Part of him was happy that Dean had such good men looking out for his wellbeing. That didn’t ease the tight knot in Castiel’s stomach, however.

“We want to know if you intend to stay with him this time.”

Were Castiel an arrogant man, shallow or egotistical, he might have raised his voice and berated the soldier for speaking to a royal in such a manner. It was a good thing, then, that Castiel was not. “I understand your concerns,” he answered truthfully. “I have no intention of leaving.”

Another soldier spoke up. “You ran away from your wedding.”

Ducking his head, Castiel nodded somberly. “I don’t suppose he’s had the chance to explain what happened, then, has he?”

Each soldier shook their head.

“I think perhaps it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. It’s been years since Dean and I last saw one another. I didn’t... I didn’t recognize him.”

The silence was more than uncomfortable. Finally, one of the soldiers finally blurted, “what?”

Castiel bit his lip, then continued. “I didn’t recognize him.”

Another silence. It was interrupted only when one of the soldiers snorted, then let out a gigantic guffaw. “Seriously?”

Castiel could feel the heat in his cheeks. He nodded, looking down at his hands. “Until the other day, I didn’t have the slightest idea that the king of the Southern Forests was the same man I’d fallen in love with all of those years ago.”

When Castiel looked up, many of the soldiers were wearing gentle smiles. 

“Those stories he told us were true, then; he raised an entire kingdom just so he could come back to you.”

Nodding, Castiel let a smile curl the corners of his own mouth. “I feel quite the part of a fool, to be honest.”

Another soldier spoke. “We didn’t mean any offence, your highness.” Several other men nodded in agreement. “We are one of the king’s oldest devoted company; we’ve been following him for well over a decade now, long before he was named royal. We were worried for him; when you ran, it crushed him. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep - it was like he’d given up the will to live until he found you.”

Castiel couldn’t help the even deeper blush that warmed his skin, not just in his cheeks but in the tips of his ears and all the way down his neck he was sure. “I’m glad to know that he has devout men looking after him. I’m sorry I caused such problems.”

One of the soldiers shook his head. “To be quite honest, it’s an incredibly romantic story.”

“What is?” It was Dean who spoke.

Castiel whipped his head around to look at him and spoke before any of the soldiers had the chance to. “The story of the king and the forest maiden, the reason the Eastern Plains throws the masquerade every year.”

Dean smiled. “I remember you telling that story to me, back when we were young.”

The knowing smile that some of Dean’s men wore put Castiel’s heart back to ease. He was happy to, seemingly, have won them over. The rest of the night was spent recanting many a story before the fire, and Castiel was glad for it.

It was when they stomped the fire out that Castiel began to plan. The words of Dean’s men had actually caused guilt to rise up and claw at his heart; to hear that Dean had been beside himself after Castiel had fled the capital city on their wedding day was weighing heavy on his shoulders, and he intended to fix it. And so, when they entered their tent and readied for bed, Castiel approached Dean from behind and wound his arms around Dean’s middle, pressing his face to the back of Dean’s neck.

“You okay, Cas?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

Dean sighed, then pulled at Castiel’s hands so that he might turn around. He placed his hands on either side of Castiel’s face, rubbing at the skin of Castiel’s cheeks with gentle movements of his thumbs. “Don’t.”

“But, I-”

“It’s done and over with. Don’t let it eat you up; it was as much my stupid fault as it was yours.”

When Castiel again tried to speak, Dean quieted him with a kiss. Gentle touches turned scorching once again, and it wasn’t long before Castiel was lost for breath, pressed between Dean’s body and the blanket on the ground.

It was then that Castiel decided to act; if Dean didn’t want his words, then actions would have to speak on his behalf. Confidence making him brazen, the fire in his heart smouldering, Castiel pushed Dean from above him. Dean, however, looked quite shocked at the movement, but the furrowing of his brow lessened when Castiel turned to, instead, climb in Dean’s lap. With a tender push of Dean’s shoulders, Castiel pressed the king to the blanket, hovering atop on his hands and knees.

When Castiel scooted downward, Dean’s breath hitched. And, as Castiel’s hands began to unlace the leather cording that kept Dean’s pants on, the king let out a shuddering breath and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids.

Castiel had never done such a thing before. It was exhilarating and foreign, and Castiel enjoyed how anticipation coiled in his stomach.

When the laces were undone, Castiel reached past the cotton and took Dean up in his grasp. Dean hissed and his hips bucked upward. Dean hissed his name, voice low and almost feral, and Castiel knew he might never get enough of the way his name spilled from Dean’s lips, as if it had clawed itself free.

He began to move, keeping his grip soft as he maneuvered his hand, eliciting another jerk of Dean’s hips that earned a jealous twitch from Castiel’s own. He bent down, fully preparing to take Dean in his mouth as it had been done to him the night before, but he hesitated. Not of fear, not of uncertainty, for neither had a place in his head in that moment.

“Cas?”

When Castiel looked up, Dean had pushed himself up onto his elbows, and was gazing down at where Castiel’s hands rested. “You dont... I mean, I won’t make you...”

Castiel shook his head. “I want to. But, to be honest, I’m afraid I’ll be bad at it.”

Dean sighed, then laid back down. “You can’t be,” he panted, his voice rough. “And even if you are, it doesn’t matter - I won’t last long like this anyway.”

Feeling devilish and brazen, Castiel bent low and took Dean into his mouth. He felt Dean’s thighs twitch under the touch the hand that was resting upon the smooth skin, and it made his own pants seem far, far too tight. What Castiel lacked in experience, he made up for in enthusiasm; he catalogued each and every one of Dean’s reactions, and repeated the moves that made Dean’s hips rise up off of the blanket, the ones that made his breath hitch or his eyes flutter as they came dangerously close to rolling backward.

It wasn’t long before Dean was breathing in short, shallow gasps, and Castiel felt powerful in the way that he could make Dean lose his mind with little but a hand and his mouth. “Cas. Cas, I’m gonna-” The words were lost, morphing into strangled breaths as Castiel hollowed out his cheeks, sucking hard, and matching the up and down movement of his mouth with the hand that was still stroking Dean. And then warmth and liquid pulsed into Castiel’s greedy mouth, for he tried to swallow as much of Dean down has he possibly could, reveling in the salty, almost bitter taste. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been pressing the palm of his free hand against himself until he, too, came. He vaguely worried about the stain it might leave on his pants, but as the aftershocks of his orgasm quaked through him, he found himself not caring.

Soon, Dean was pulling Castiel up the length of him, maneuvering the prince to lie down next to him. Both of their breath still caught, and Castiel felt deliciously sated and lightheaded as Dean peppered his face with gentle kisses. Dean spoke tender words, half of them lost when Castiel began to selfishly take his own kisses from Dean’s mouth. So long, it had been so long since Castiel had felt such joy, such warmth well up inside of him. Being so close to Dean, so intimate, nearly threatened to consume him, but it was a welcomed feeling to the way his heart had ached all those years alone. He hated to admit it, even only to himself, but at some point he’d nearly lost faith; Dean had promised to come back to him, and Castiel’s heart grew colder every year with the dread that it would never happen, that he was doomed to live the rest of his life out without the one piece of him that was nothing but joyous. He should have trusted, should have known; once he was able to look back on it, he knew, of course, that it had to have been Dean on the night of the masquerade, that night under the stars, that night on the dance floor with him bent on one knee. 

The words Dean had spoken on the morning of their wedding rang out in his mind, and he felt tears gather at the corners of his eyes for how much had been said. He was glad for the darkness of the tent.

In the morning, they woke entangled, Castiel burying his face into Dean’s neck, feeling almost starved for contact he craved it so. Dean, ever observant, softly chuckled at Castiel’s actions, stealing a few more kisses before they dressed and packed away their things.

They arrived in Treescend my mid-afternoon, and Castiel was pleased that they’d made such good time. As they passed through the city gates, all manner of people - young and old, men, women and children - raced to line the streets, cheering as their king practically paraded his catch through the city. Castiel wanted to shrink back against the troves of people that were staring and waving at him, but Dean’s occasional kiss to the back of his neck helped him endure.

He and Dean dismounted their horse when they reached the gate of what Castiel could only guess was as close to a castle as Dean would allow for. The building was large and made of stone, but compared to the palace in the capital city where Castiel had live for his entire life. it was small. He felt it suited Dean well. Dean reached out and Castiel laced their fingers together, and when the doors were opened for them, a myriad of people advanced on the pair. Castiel was lost amidst the unexpected swarm of movement and voices, but when he felt a strong grip encircle him, his heart swelled in his chest. 

“Gabriel?”

His older brother laughed, placing a large, wet, theatrical kiss to Castiel’s cheek. “You moron,” he chided, no real venom in his voice. Castiel began to apologize, but Gabriel, just as Dean had, simply wouldn’t allow it. “We’re just glad you’re safe.” He looked down to where Dean and Castiel were still joined, hand in hand. “You two work everything out, I take it?”

Castiel caught Dean’s sheepish grin out of the corner of his gaze, sure he himself was unable to hide the same look on his face.

Gabriel clapped Castiel on the back. “Well, since you had the foresight to send us a message about what happened, we figured a feast was in order when you two got back.”

Castiel found himself surprised at Gabriel’s words; he knew Dean had sent word to Michael, but he was grateful that Dean had thought to send word to his brother in Treescend. Honestly, Castiel didn’t have the slightest idea Gabriel had come so far south in the first place, but he was more than happy to see his brother, no matter the occasion.

With a suggestive eyebrow wiggle in Castiel and Dean’s direction, Gabriel recommended that the two of them wash up for the festivities. Several people whom Castiel assumed were butlers surrounded them and began to pull at their clothing and guiding them down one of the hallways, but Dean held up his free hand and they stopped. “Just run us a bath.” The people scattered, and Dean began to pull Castiel down the hallway.

There was a tension in the air between them, a delicious stream of anticipation as they walked side by side. When they came to stand in front of a great, sprawling door, Castiel knew that the moment they were on the other side, he would simply kiss Dean senseless.

When they passed the threshold, however, it seemed Dean was a step ahead of him; one moment Castiel was closing the door, and the next he had his back to it, Dean’s strong hands on his hips as their lips pressed together into an array of deepening kisses.

“I love you.” Castiel felt slightly guilty at the admission, wishing that perhaps he should have told Dean sooner. It didn’t matter how many years they’d been apart - the words rang with the same truth he knew he’d held in his heart when he was but a boy.

But, if it bothered Dean at all, he didn’t let it show. He gifted Castiel’s words back to him. “You’ve no idea how much I love you.” He peeled Castiel’s shirt off, the both of them kissing as though they were starved for touch. “No idea.”

Castiel helped Dean rid himself of his own. “You raised a kingdom up from nothing; I can imagine.”

Dean smiled against his lips, and then, much to Castiel’s surprise, lifted the prince off the ground. Castiel wrapped his hips around Dean’s middle, and Dean practically ran across the room toward the bed. Castiel was laid on the soft blankets, and he buried his nose against them. They smelled just as Castiel had always remembered Dean smelling, of leather and coriander, and he breathed in the scent again and again, committing to memory as if, somehow, he might forget.

“I’m never going to let you out of this bed.” Dean’s voice was deep and dark, and Castiel could feel himself harden. His pants were practically torn from his body, Dean’s fingers a flurry of determination. He felt strong hands grip the naked cheeks of his ass, and he sputtered and moaned into the blanket, finding himself face down against it. It was nothing compared to the hot tongue that licked at his shoulders, the teeth that bit at the back of his neck. Castiel’s hips pushed upward, and a tight, keening moan was ripped from him, suddenly desperate for friction.

“They’ll have to move the feast to tomorrow.” Dean’s voice was gravel-low, debauched, and it made Castiel shiver. Another swipe of Dean’s tongue, this time lower on his spine, and Castiel bent like a bowstring. “Because I’m not going to be able to stop myself from feasting on you.” Dean’s last sentenced was punctuated with a sharp bite to the globe of Castiel’s ass.

Castiel had nothing to say in return; words had long since fled his mind. It didn’t matter what was beyond their room. He had Dean; what else could he possibly want, could he possibly need?

Dean’s touch was suddenly gone, and Castiel whined at the loss of heat and tongue and teeth. He heard a strange noise behind him, and then, thankfully, Dean moved back to straddle Castiel’s legs. The smell of heavy spice permeated the air, weighty and comforting, and then he felt Dean still above him. There was a slick finger pressed against his opening, gentle and light, tentative, as though seeking permission. Castiel cried Dean’s name into the blanket. Any shred of cognitive thought was pushed from his mind when the digit pressed into him, a deliciously slow, unique burn that was unlike anything he’d endured before.

Above him, Dean bent low, lips ghosting over the crook of his neck, the edge of his jaw. Dean’s movements were slow and methodical, and it wasn’t long before Castiel was hungry for more, and he pushed his hips up as to try and get Dean to do something, anything, that might ease the edacious, nearly all-consuming ache in his belly.

Dean took the invitation, and moments later Castiel nearly choked on his breath as another finger pushed inside of him. The burn was back, that delicate feeling that had him teetering on the precipice of pain and pleasure, rocking him steadily but never outright pushing him in one direction too much. Dean scissored his fingers, stretching Castiel out from the inside, and he keened, shakily, into the blankets again and again, the pain slowly subsiding, giving way to the promise of greater things.

Desperate for more, Castiel pushed himself upward, and Dean understood the meaning behind the motion; in hardly the span of a breath, there was a third finger pressing inside of the prince. There was no thought in Castiel’s mind to hide behind pretence; when he felt his body finally relax against the new pain, he pushed his hips up, unabashedly and without shame, asking for more, for anything Dean was willing to give him.

He heard a hiss from behind him, and then, suddenly, he was empty. Castiel almost cried at the loss of sensation, but soon there was something larger pressing against his entrance, and it made him stutter, Tortuously slow, Dean pushed inside of Castiel, and the slew of filthy words that cascaded out of his mouth only added fuel to the fire already blazing in Castiel’s veins in his desperation. He felt Dean’s hips flush against his own, feeling as though he’d been completely spread open, spread apart.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice was heavy with lust, Castiel’s heart ached at the concern he could still hear behind it. Kisses were pressed to his neck, upon his shoulders, hot and wanting and certainly not unkind, but definitely not gentle.

“Please, Dean. Please.” Castiel flexed, and Dean let out a choked gasp when Castiel tightened around him. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t entirely sure what it was he was asking for; he knew Dean would gift him anything in his power.

The pace Dean took was excruciatingly slow, but the rough pain that Castiel felt at how full Dean stretched him began to fade, morphing into something far more sinister, more decadent. When Castiel raised his hips and pressed backward, he heard his name fall past Dean’s lips, warm against his skin, a sound stripped of thought, only spared because it was impossible for him to keep it in.

Suddenly, the pressure was gone and Castiel was flipped, roughly, onto his back. In hardly the span of a few breaths, Dean had moved to cage Castiel’s legs around his own waist, and then, roughly, lined back up and pushed inside Castiel anew. Their breath mingled between them, kisses and bites frequent, until Castiel thought he might see stars.

Dean hooked an arm under one of Castiel’s knees and hoisted it over his shoulder, nearly bending Castiel in half, and it was like nothing he had ever experienced, had ever dreamed the joining of two people could be. The way Dean was pounding into him was intense in it’s own right, moved well into animalistic, only punctuated further by the teeth against his skin, by growls and grunts and cries of his name against the shell of his ear.

As if waiting for the way Castiel shook beneath him, Dean cursed as his pace stuttered. Castiel clung tight to him, arms wrapped around lean, muscular shoulders, liquid fire filling him where he was stretched apart, his own heat spilling across his stomach.

A heavy weight was pressed into him as Dean relaxed, the both of them clutching at the other.

“Oh, drat.” Dean looked up when Castiel spoke. Grinning wickedly, the prince continued. “They’ll have to move the feast to the day after tomorrow.”

Dean smiled, sated and blissful. “I’ll have them put it off indefinitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings for this chapter: explicit sexual content
> 
> **Art for this chapter provided by the amazing[madches](http://madches.tumblr.com/)**

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger warnings for this chapter: none.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Beautiful artwork created by the magnificent [madches](http://madches.tumblr.com/)


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